


Diffident

by theladymia



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Depictions of Sexual Assault, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fix-It, Implied Past Relationships, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Masturbation, Narratophilia, Paraphilias, Phone Sex, Reader-Insert, Reid is on the Spectrum, Road Trip Fluff, Slow Burn, This Shit Will Reach 100k Before The First Kiss, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Virgin!Spencer Reid, case-solving, non-canon timeline, profiler!reader, sexual assault content is kept to a canon-typical minimum
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:21:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 50,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26094049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theladymia/pseuds/theladymia
Summary: EDIT: 9/28/2020: this fic is NOT being abandoned. I am just not posting chapters as frequently. I am a bit busier IRL now and have less time to work on it but my drive to write this fic has not faded.Y/N is an FBI agent who is transferred to Quantico’s very own B.A.U. after her own B.A.U. is killed-in-action due to a mistake that she made. She quickly adjusts to her new surroundings, and *most* of the team adjusts to her-- but one particular member has a hard time with the fact that his new coworker seems to be just as fast and as clever as he is. There’s only so many geniuses out there.---Reid’s confidence is destroyed when he develops a crush on the first person that outsmarts him (you), but he has no one to talk to about it. When you notice, you unknowingly (okay, maybe a little knowingly, he’s just too cute when he’s embarrassed) torture him by confronting him and offering to be his self-confidence cheerleader.
Relationships: Spencer Reid/Original Female Character(s), Spencer Reid/Reader, Spencer Reid/You
Comments: 78
Kudos: 173





	1. Pilot

**Author's Note:**

> hi! welcome to diffident! thanks for coming! PLEASE check out chapter 5 for a quick explanation on how time skips and POV switches work during this fic.  
> i'm not finished with the show yet (as of chp 7's posting date), so this fic does not take place during any specific season! in this fic, the B.A.U. consists of jj, derek, garcia, spence, hotch, rossi, emily, and you! i do plan to introduce alvez and simmons at some point as well. additionally, in this fic, jj has been promoted to a profiler and has endured her torture, derek left the team for paternity leave and then returned, spence has gone to prison and returned (and experienced everything that happened to him beforehand), hotch came back after he didn't need to be in witsec, and emily 'died', came back, left, and came back again just as she does in the show. so basically, nothing's canon lol.
> 
> and PLEASE for the love of GOD, use this extension when reading my fic! i hate the fact that people can read this and have to deal with the term ‘y/n.’ it totally breaks the immersion, so please, for my conscious and for your self-care, download this extension (chrome only, sorry!) that will replace y/n with your name. If anyone finds a safari version let me know and i will put it here! thanks again babes.  
> https://chrome.google.com/webstore/detail/word-replacer-ii/djakfbefalbkkdgnhkkdiihelkjdpbfh?hl=en#:~:text=What%20is%20Word%20Replacer%3F,RECENTLY%20UNDERGONE%20A%20HUGE%20UPDATE.

_"What, you don’t think you belong with this group?” He waved the gun around, gesturing to Sarah and Rachel. He was losing control. A move needed to be made, and it needed to be made soon._ _  
_

_I_ _took a beat to start talking. “No.” Another breath. “I do.”_ _  
_

_A tremor in his hand._ _  
_

_His eyes dart from you to the other women briefly._ _  
_

Right here. Nowhere else-- right here.

 _“You know who else does?” I say, a little louder. I need to keep his attention._ _  
_

_I saw the gears turn in his head. He knew where I was going with that. He probably heard about the framed detainment_ _Sarah came up with._ _  
_

_“Stop.”_ _  
_

_“No.” I shrugged defiantly and continued. “Your mother. She belongs here too.” I nod my head towards an empty space next to the group. “Kneeling there, bound, like the rest of us. Because she_ is _the rest of us.”_ _  
_

_His tongue darted out briefly. “Shut the fuck up.”_ _  
_

_“That’s why you did this. That’s why you hurt the rest of them, that’s why you thought you could hurt us, too.” I was gaining confidence._ Too much confidence. _“Because our intelligence insults you, doesn’t it?!”_

She flinches; her shoulders raise and her eyes shut tightly. Her ears feel hollow-- she’s expecting to get the same tinnitus she did after that first shot that unsub fired at her coworker, followed by three more shots that count off every last woman she worked with. And then, the worst sound of them all: the silence that came afterwards, when she realized that the unsub was going to spare her. She was sick of these memories from a month ago coming back to haunt her. _  
_

“Miss Y/N.”

Startled, she makes a sound between a yell and a ‘huh?’

“Uh-- we’ve arrived.”

“ _Oh. Oh, God._ Okay. Thank you.” She blabs, collecting her things before struggling to exit the car in an appropriate manner, due to her stupid, air-tight pencil skirt that she’s _this_ fucking close to swapping out for a pair of gas station sweatpants. She doesn’t wear skirts.

Y/N did, however, buy one during a week-long fit of anxiety after her transfer papers had been approved. After what happened in Atlanta, Chief Pajda wanted to assign her to the unit in Quantico, knowing that she couldn’t just stop doing profiling work. What else was she going to do with that brain? And when that misplaced agent stood in the department store, looking at racks and racks of the same bland, black skirt with different brand labels on them, she asked herself the same question. It took her awhile, but she eventually accepted what was coming next. She had no choice-- she had to move on from her B.A.U. to another.

“Agent Y/L/N.” A solid, clear voice comes from outside of the open elevator doors, and it wakes her from her mind. Her arm dashes forward as the doors start to close on their timer.

“Agent Hotchner! Hi-- hi, it’s… nice to meet you.” She offers her hand, and they shake as she looks around, taking in the environment before taking in the tall man in front of her.

“It’s overwhelming, I know. Being out of the field for a long period of time only to be thrown in on two-days notice couldn’t have been easy.” He pulls his hand away and gestures for her to follow him. “Luckily, this team is more than ready to adopt a new member.”

She smiles, eased already. “Good to hear.”

Hotchner pushes open the glass door, and heads confidently into his workspace. She follows behind, looking over the frosted-glass decal printed over the doors. Then, tentatively, she crosses the line into Quantico’s B.A.U. and into official unfamiliarity.

“Hotch, Jeffrey Bell’s parents are on line 2 in your office.” A blonde appears in front of them, speaking quickly, with disappointment _(?)_ on her face.

“What? Why? We just closed that case.” His voice just barely falters into concern.

“I… wish I knew.” She gently responds, exasperatingly tapping a file on her arm in sympathy, before clicking away.  
Hotchner gives a little sigh, before turning to his new employee apologetically. “Find Rossi, he’ll give you the tour. I’ll talk to you soon, agent.” He nods before heading off. Repeating her title again eases her-- he recognized her authority and experience regardless of her status in this unit.

 _Rossi._ No one sent her photos or names. She looks around the bullpen below her, counting the men. _Three._ She struggles professionally down the stairs, and heads for the older one, feeling stranger by the step as she notices she was the only one with an ID badge around her neck.

“You’re Rossi?” She asks, leaning into his line of vision.  
He turns quickly, switching his attention from his desk to her. “Yes! And you’re our new teammate.” He stands, and claps heartily, which catches the attention of the four agents around them. With a booming voice, he introduces her by first and last name. “As you’ve already been briefed, she’ll be joining us, eventually as a profiler. For right now, though, she’s shadowing us on the field. Don’t be too harsh.” He turns to her, giving a smile and taking a small step backwards.

“Hello, everyone.” She greets them. “I’m looking forward to working with you all. My--” She pauses unexpectedly. _My previous unit. Previous. ‘Cause they’re all dead._ One of the three men she counted earlier, the floppy-haired kid with eye bags and big lips, draws his eyebrows down in concern, and that encourages her to swallow and continue. Addressing the group, she goes on. “My previous unit used a lot of your tactics.” She presses her lips into a line and nods. She’s said enough.

God help her. She’s _not_ even as anxious as she must sound, and this was the _worst_ time to sound dumb. 

The team in front of her gave little reassuring nods, genuine-seeming smiles, and waves, as they swiveled back to face their desks. The casualty of their reactions ease her further.

A hand plants itself high on her back and guides her to the group, where a desk had been prepared for her. “That one’s yours,” Rossi points. “I’m sure they’ll all introduce themselves. Let me know if you need anything, okay?” He says just before turning to leave.

She nods. “Thank you again, Agent Rossi.” She gives a convincingly-stable smile, and when they part ways, she looks to the few in front of her. Directly to her right is the floppy-haired kid. No fine lines in his face, youthful beauty, and shadows that eluded to patchy facial hair... _he can’t be older than me._ In front of her is the other man; shaved head, well-groomed facial hair, and much more well-formed than the kid. To her left, two women are standing, the small blonde from earlier and a dark-haired beauty in a well-fitted blazer. They must have been talking to each other before Rossi grabbed everyone’s attention.

She learns everyone’s names and titles, takes a seat, and starts to unpack her things. Everyone seems welcoming, but not overbearing, and no one in particular was standing out to her in any anxiety-inducing way. In fact, Y/N sees herself working well with this group. The two women, who she now knows as Emily and J.J., start right back up on their chat (something about a Henry) and the doctor returns his focus-- _no, hyperfocus_ \-- on some papers in front of him. But the last guy, Morgan, was staring at her.

“You good?” He asks. _He’s got no right to look like that_ and _sound like that._

“Yeah! Why, do I--”

“Not at all. Actually, you adjusted pretty quick.”

Her shoulders lower. “Oh. Good.” She almost pants out in relief. She was hoping it was clear to the others that her anxiety was starting to wear off.

He gives a perfect laugh. She’s reminded of someone she wishes she could forget. 

J.J. turns to her. “So,” she calls her by her first name, ”your old unit was overseen by Chief Pajda?” She asks, one hand on her hip, the other leaning on Morgan’s desk. She’s so much smaller than most FBI agents. _What, 110?_ It gives Y/N a little bit of anxiety, but the good kind. She’s concerned about J.J. in the field already.  
She clears her throat, and manages to sound solid when responding. “Yeah. I’m lucky, she’s an angel.”

“I met her briefly while I was communications liaison. She’s incredible.” J.J. smiles. She’s got such large eyes. They remind Y/N of her mother’s.

Prentiss speaks, low and commanding, even in casual conversation. “Well, you’re lucky, then. Our chief, Cruz, is real laid-back.”

“Oh, Jesus.” Y/N starts. “Good. I don’t know how much more I can handle.” She laughs a little, poking fun at her own overwhelmed-ness.

The two women laugh, and J.J. comes to the rescue. “Yeah, he's... a really good guy..” She bites her lip, holding back what the new girl assumes to be a smile with history behind it. “We, uh, don’t work with him often, though.”

Y/N nods. “Gotcha.”

She’d grown accustomed to casual workplace banter, especially in her line of work. In the FBI; with the awful shit that you see alongside your coworkers, there’s no way to prevent those relationships from becoming more than proximity-based friendliness. What she _wasn’t_ used to, however, was what _this_ unit considered ‘banter.’

A woman dressed as an elementary school art teacher appears from nowhere, planting her behind on the corner of Morgan and Reid’s joint desk. The doctor’s eyes darted to a paper of his that was now crumpled between the woman and the desk.

“Good morning, my hunkahunka burnin’ love. I got together that list that you asked for.” She chimes at Morgan.

“Thanks, baby girl.” He responds. Although the flirtations were definitely shocking, the blonde isn’t the only one who melts a little at that comment.

“You’re always welcome to my temple of knowledge, my dear.” She hops off his desk and clicks away, her arms bent so her hands fall limp in front of her torso, as she takes tiny, animated little steps out of the bullpen.

The new agent’s face forms the beginning of the word ‘what?’ before Prentiss addresses her. 

“Just-- just get used to it. They do it all the time, it’s nothing real.”

“That _can’t_ be acceptable.” She laughs as the shock from witnessing that interaction starts to fade.

“I-It isn’t, in fact, that interaction broke at least two rules, possibly three, the affectionate pet names are against the FBI’s rules regarding fraternization between agents and Garcia’s last comment could easily be taken as a sexual innuendo which breaks another rule and there’s always the possibility that whatever list she handed Morgan wasn’t sanctioned by a higher authority than hers, they’ve offended HR rules exactly 4,563 times that I’m aware of and of those times 3,233 times were directly in front of the unit chief, at this point if Hotch didn’t know better they’d have been fired 1,521 times, for whatever reason, FBI agents have a higher rate of fraternization than most law-enforcement type careers do, for example Chicago police dealt with around three hundred cases of fraternization in 2011 while the FBI handled around half that in a two month period a _lone._ ” He presses his lips into a line, nodding gently, with his brows raised.

She blinks, and then blinks again. He didn’t breathe. Not _once._ And he didn’t seem angry at Morgan and Garcia for their flirtation, either. His eyes stayed right on the page in front of him that whole time, and his face was expressionless, aside from the strange smile of his. He casually licks his lips and turns over the paper in his hands.

“I--” She stutters.

“That happens all the time, too.” Derek responds. It doesn’t explain anything. 

The doe-eyed doctor looks between the two, saying nothing to explain himself, almost like he doesn’t need to. He looks back down at his work.

She isn’t sure how to act or continue from there, but Y/N decides on carefully continuing to unpack her things, which earns a smooth laugh from Morgan.

~

She finished unpacking a few hours ago, and busies herself now with reviewing past cases that this unit closed. The most recent one they took care of was violent-- a man was kidnapping, torturing, and killing women based simply off of retirement status. Of course, his actions had a connection to his mother and her career and how it affected her son and blah blah blah. Although her job is essentially finding out what trauma leads these suspects to do what they do, Y/N never sees trauma as a reason. She sees it as an excuse. She believes that these people were going to do something awful someday anyway, and poor life events just became a scapegoat for these people. Sometimes, her old coworkers would have to help her cool off after a case because she’d get so angry at the idea of mental health being an ‘explanation’ for such horrors. She had her fair share of issues, and spending every day seeing what those issues could become made her snap.

She closes the file and pushes it away. Whoever did the paperwork on that case used a little too much sympathetic diction towards the criminal, like he was the victim, and she couldn't read another word of it. Whatever; she knew how to do this job, she didn’t need to prepare for it. She’d done it for three years with a different group, so there was no difference doing the same thing here. Or, there shouldn’t be one.

“Hey, new girl.” An older, rough voice sounds from behind her, and she turns to face Rossi. “How’s the first day going so far?”

“Good! Tame, which I’m endlessly grateful for.” She laughs a little.

“Don’t get used to it.” He joins her in gentle laughter. “Hey-- are you sicilian or italian?”

She blinks, shocked. _I don’t look like it at all._ “Ah-- um, Italian!” She shakes her head. “How’d you guess?”

“I am, too. You just kinda pick up on it.” His words roll out. She assumed he was italian when she first saw him, but didn’t consciously think of it. The deep-set, bulldog wrinkles, dark skin, and rough, salt and pepper hair all pointed to it. He looks _just_ like her father. His voice isn’t as deep and commanding as her father’s, though.

“Actually, yeah. You totally do. Pick up on it, I mean.” She smiles. “You cook?”

The agents around them slowly, silently look up, mischevy on their faces. _Uh-oh, what’d I say?_

Rossi death-stares the rest of them while responding. “Yes. I do. And I think that’ll be the end of that topic.” He jokingly, but sternly, says to the others, before turning to her again with an easier face. “Good to hear they’ve treated you well while Hotch and I were busy. Let me know if you need anything, okay?” He pats the back of her chair.

”Actually, I was looking to speak with Hotchner. Do you know where he is?” She prepares a few folders, ready to get up.

”Office as always.” He responds, simultaneously giving a goodbye nod before walking away.

She likes Rossi. He has this light-hearted way about him, but even still, everything he said had meaning to it. He’s a unit dad, and it’s clear to her why, too. She knows she isn’t going to have a problem accepting him in that role.

She makes her way up the stairs to Hotchner’s office and knocks on the open door. “Chief Hotchner?”

”Oh, please, ‘agent,’ not ‘chief.’ And coworkers call me Hotchner.” He insists. “Unit Chief means nothing in my team, we’re all leaders. Come in.”

She takes a seat across from him. “I just had a few questions about some of the forms I saw while reviewing some of the unit’s older cases. I haven't seen anything like them before and I assumed they were, uh, sort of a you-guys thing.” She gestures outside, to the bullpen, at the end of her sentence.

”No problem, show me.” He finishes organizing his desk to make space for her items. He’s interested in what she has to say, even though it was menial. She likes that.

”So, these two forms…” she takes out two papers from two different folders as she speaks. “... have the same content in them, but different titles, and I was wondering if you had an organizational change at some point between these two cases, or if they were actually different forms?”

The two talk paperwork for a while. She asks thorough questions and receives even more thorough answers. She feels more eased by the moment with Hotchner; he clearly wants nothing but her successful integration.

”Jeez. Okay, wow, thank you. That helps a lot, agent Hotchner.” She huffs.

”Remember-- Hotchner and Hotch are fine.” He leans back, now that the work was done, but keeps a strong posture.

”Right. Got it.” She nods. Then, godforsaken silence comes, the kind that she managed to avoid all day today up until now. She can’t help it-- she starts talking and isn't sure where she's going. “You know, I-- I want to thank you. You've been really awesome today. I mean, the rest of the team’s super nice and welcoming, but you’ve said everything I needed to hear, and this transition is just… really hard. So. Thank you.”

His face softens. “Of course, agent.” He assures. “When I… found out about what happened, and when Strauss told me you were slated to head our way, I wanted to make sure you were comfortable and prepared.” He goes on. “Suffering a loss like that… our unit has had its fair share of losses, but nothing like what you’ve gone through.” He pauses, but she thinks he has more to say. “I, myself, suffered a loss due to this job.” He starts, gingerly. “A cold case from my past opened back up, and eventually, it took the life of… of the mother of my son.” He reveals.

”I’m… so sorry.” She shakes her head gently. If she learned one thing in the FBI, it was how to handle grief.

”Ah, it’s been some time.” He comforts, waving his hand.

She lets them both sit for a moment in the silence as they grieve together, before speaking again. “I think… I think if we don't suffer loss, then we never learn how to _truly_ do our jobs.” She pauses, and it causes him to look up from his hands to her. “We’re told to get into the minds of our suspects, learn who they are and how they process emotion… but doesn't that give them another win?”

Hotch draws his brow, interested.

”If we _must_ understand the mind of the evil, then we need to sympathize with who the evil has hurt twice as much. Otherwise, we’re giving more attention to the wrong people.”

Hotchner looks off, and something lifts from his shoulders. “You’re right,” he responds, softly.

She smiles, maybe just a little bit proud. “Thanks for talking to me, Hotchner. I appreciate it.” She stands up, flattening her skirt, and takes her leave.

After waddling down the steps again, she can’t help but look over Reid’s shoulder at whatever he was so focused on earlier. He’s looking at some sort of cipher. The code is printed on some company stationary, but the company is one that she doesn’t recognize. That’s when she notices a new logo at the top of the page: _Hunt A Killer._ One of those subscription boxes, but this one’s a murder mystery game. She got way too many advertisements on her instagram feed for it after spending a night looking for Dexter merchandise. She shamefully subscribed.

She leans over Reid (easily, due to his poor posture), and points to a single character in the cipher. He freezes up beneath her.

“This one’s a question mark, not a period. The killer’s questioning himself.” She states.

Reid looks up at her, relaxing a bit. He didn’t care about their proximity anymore-- he had another concern. “What?” He squeaks. This voice was completely different from the so-confident-it-was-monotone voice from earlier. “How? He used the same cipher in the previous murders and it translated as a period.” He looks back to the puzzle, bewildered.

“Except…” She suggests, edging him along.

His brows knit together, and he darts his tongue out. “Except-- e-except it’s _not_ the same cipher, it’s been modified! The killer had to change it because his last victim caught on, he was afraid that she could've told someone else about it before he got to her!” He double-takes at her, the second look filled with… _what is that, is he impressed?_

“What?” She asks.

“N-nothing! Just, I… I can’t believe I didn’t catch that earlier.” He looks down at his hands.

Prentiss looks up, false sympathy on her face. “Oh, you poor thing. You’ve been outsmarted by the new girl.” She gazes up to her, giving her a smile that encourages her to join in on the fun.

“Aw, don’t worry, doctor.” Y/N stands back up, finally exiting his space, and takes her seat at her desk next to him. “I’ve only had-- what, 4? 5?-- years less experience than you. It’s not _that_ bad.”

Emily seems proud. “Yeah, she’s right, Spence, don’t let some co-ed get you down.”

Spencer is bright red. He stares daggers into Emily. It doesn’t stop her from continuing.

“Just, you know… try a little harder next time.” She finishes him off.

He looks completely defeated. He leans back in his chair, hands upturned as his eyes dart between the two women. He has no defense. His brows have the slightest upturn to them, and his lips are parted like he’s going to speak, but he doesn’t.

“Hey, hey. It’s whatever.” Y/N smiles, trying to actually comfort him, or maybe apologize. “It’s a fake case, anyway. Wanna prove you’re smarter than me?” He perks up a little at the notion. “Prove it on a real case.” She concludes, and brings back just a little bit of that smugness by trying not to look at him. She still manages to see that his shoulders melt a little, and that he just barely smirks.

Hotch calls from above, grabbing everyone’s attention; he’s crossing the small space from his office to the conference room. “Sorry, guys.” He says, holding up a manilla folder, which he then uses to gesture ‘follow me.’

_Oh, finally._

She stands up and straightens her skirt, more than ready to start profiling.


	2. Spot-On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary  
> Y/N goes on her first case with the B.A.U.  
> \---  
> u find urself adjusting ~smoothly~ with the new unit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy moly, so many reads!! thank !!! again, please consider downloading the extension i linked in the first chapter’s notes to help immerse yourself in the work! the extension replaces y/n with your actual name! love u thanks 4 readin  
> 

After a significant number of moans and groans, everyone makes their way into the conference room. Garcia was standing, remote in hand, waiting for them.

“Yes, yes, yes, we’re all _so_ unhappy to be doing the most _helpful_ job in the world,” she gripes as she clicks around on a laptop in front of her. “Well, the next time you think you’re gonna complain about your hero-ship, maybe you’ll think about the helpless blonde who _also_ has to see the grizzly photos, and can’t do anything about them from behind her screens.” As she talks, she pulls open a program. A photo projects of a man who had been laid in a neatly-made bed, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes closed. There was a bullet hole in his head, but there was no blood in his surroundings. The wound had also been cleaned.

“Okay. Kansas City, Missouri. A week ago, a body of a James Butcher was found, _faux-respectfully_ laid in his own bed after being shot once in the head. He was killed elsewhere, and local police couldn’t track down the location before the second body was found.” _Click._ Another photo appears of a man resting in the same manner as James. “This is Peter Cucchio, who was treated the exact same way post-mortem, found seven days later.” She grimaces.

“Garcia, can you tell us more about the wounds?” Hotchner state-asks.

“Yes, I can, double oh-seven.” _Click._ The wounds appear, side-by-side, in morgue lighting. “Medical examiners were able to determine that _those_ horrible holes were made by a .22, and that whoever fired the machine responsible for them cleaned the wounds afterwards with isopropyl alcohol and linen.”

“Were they able to determine if the cleaning happened ante- or post-?” Reid asks.

“No, unfortunately.”

Emily spoke for the first time. Her voice always grabs Y/N’s attention-- something about her tone...

“Why would that matter? If someone’s gonna clean a wound that they caused, they’re planning to do it no matter what, death inexorable or not.”

“T-that’s actually not true, across all the cases we’ve handled we’ve actually seen 32 deaths that were unplanned by the unsub whether it was an accident or self-defense and of those 32 only 4 were left without any signs of remorse such as cleaning the wounds or posing the bodies... the reason I asked was that an unsub will clean wounds postmortem for multiple reasons, but remorse is one of the lesser common ones-- uh, post-mortem cleaning is found most commonly in amateur-assassination-type killings.”

Y/N speaks up before she can think twice about it. “But out of the cases you’ve handled that _were_ amateur assassins, which is 7, none of them shared a similar MO to that which we’re seeing here.” She gestures to the screen. “The way the body was posed and the fact that it was placed on his own bed are _completely_ inconsistent with assassination-type killings. The wound-cleaning alone isn’t enough to make that assumption.” She pauses, starting to see the horrid look of inferiority appear on Reid’s face, but she can’t just stop herself. She didn’t make her point yet. “This isn’t a professionally-taken life. This life was taken by someone who thought he had no other option, possibly because he’s out of control, and these signs of remorse are him trying to make up for it post-mortem.”

“ _My God, the geniuses, they’re doubling.”_ Garcia mutters to herself, her eyes shifting between the two.

Reid blinks. Opens his mouth. Then, wets his lips and gulps. Some members of the team share that same bewildered expression-- except instead of insecurity, they show second-hand embarrassment for the young doctor. Clearly, no one has ever had the balls (or maybe the brains?) to out-smart Reid like Y/N just did. Hotchner and Rossi, however, couldn’t care less; they were nodding in agreement at what she had to say. 

“But-- um, that’s… that’s actually spot-on.” Garcia tentatively continues talking. _Click._ She materializes two more photos: a sticky note posted on the foot of each bed, reading ‘FOR YOU’ in steady, almost romantic cursive. “Local police found this by both of the victim’s feet. They believe that the bodies… are gifts.” She mutters, almost apologetically.

“This is a serial.” Hotchner says, solid as always. He starts organizing his materials. “Wheels up in 30.”

The new agent makes herself as small as possible, trying to blend in with the rest of the team, getting ready to leave. She avoids eye contact with the one agent who doesn’t stand, who hasn’t broken eye contact with her for about a minute straight now.

~

She knew they had a jet. Her old team told her about it a couple of times. In fact, it was a common topic of theirs-- that was, talking about how the Quantico unit had more tools and resources than their unit did. Her old unit didn’t even have an HQ; instead, they just flew from their homes to the crime scene and briefed right there.

That was probably the worst part of the old unit, having to fly back and forth over and over. She knew that wasn’t going to change with this new unit, but the idea of having a base and a real hometown was appetizing enough for her to ignore it. Before the transfer, she lived alone in Seattle in a small apartment. She made sure that it was as cozy as could be, and it’s easy to make a small space feel cozy, so she didn’t mind the size. All she really needed was a really good bed and an animal to love on. 

Reid sighs. He sits cross-legged on the jet’s mini-couch, looking over a case file. Y/N sat across from him, picking at her nails, only a bit awoken from her thoughts as Reid does his continued, focused, self-soothing movements.

In Seattle, Y/N forced her way into her neighbor’s lives to ensure there was always a friend who was home to watch her dog when she had to fly off for work. The little 12-year-old Chihuahua-Frankenstein-doodle mix was small enough to be toted along for those trips, but then she’d have to find a kennel, and then she’d have to convince her chief to let her do it, and she also wanted to avoid any danger coming near her little Maggot.

Reid turns a case file page over, the paper making a snapping sound, and he shakes his head after looking it over. Y/N looks up at him briefly, but when he doesn’t fidget any further, she goes back to daydreaming.

Maggot, as well as her mattress and a few other essentials, were all shipped down to Virginia a few days before she moved down, and she was happy to see that the photos of her new home that she saw online were completely accurate. The bedroom was the same size as her old one, and the other room tripled as kitchen, dining, and living. The bathroom _was_ a little nicer, though, and that was a change she was okay with making. She was lucky enough to have a separate tub and shower. One of the first adjustments she made when she got there was unscrewing the overflow valve at the head of the tub and turning it upside down; she liked her baths to be deep.

Spencer makes an exasperated gesture.

_Oh, my--_

“What? What is it?” She asks, forced to abandon her introspection.

“ _‘For you.’_ ” He quotes, paying no mind to how her tone showed clear annoyance. “Two words that can’t mean much except gift-bearing, right?” He pauses just long enough for her to open her mouth, but doesn’t give her the time or the silence to speak. “Well, I thought about it, and isn’t the way that he posed and placed the bodies obvious enough that these men were gifts? If this unsub knows the person he’s gifting to, then that person would undoubtedly know something was wrong with him, so he wouldn’t _need_ to clarify that the bodies were ‘for her.’ So the gifter and the recipient must not know each other.”

“For her?” She asks. The rest of the team had stood or turned to face the two of them by now.

“What?” He looks up at her, roused from his out-loud train of thought.

“You said, ‘he wouldn’t need to clarify if the bodies were _for her_.’ How do you know it’s a woman he’s gifting the bodies to?”

He blinks. “I-I don’t know, it… it just kinda slipped out.” He looks off, no doubt trying to find an answer to that question.

“Well,” Morgan starts, “how many cases have we seen where murders are an offering of some sort that are made from male to male or from female to female?” He reasons. 

“Actually, it’s pretty common--”

“Slow it down, pretty boy. I’m not done yet.”

Reid grows red and embarrassed, and (poorly) avoids eye contact with Y/N.

“These two victims have no signs of sexual assault, right? So, it’s a straight man killing other men to offer as a gift. A woman is the target of his twisted affections.” Morgan’s strong hands gesture as he talks.

“A woman he doesn’t know…” Reid ruminates.

“No,” Rossi butts in. “A woman he _does_ know.” Reid looks up, and Rossi continues. “The woman doesn’t know _him._ ”

“Right, right.” Reid nods quickly, overcompensating for the slip-up.

“So our preliminary profile is a fit, white male between the ages of 25 and 30 who struggles when interacting with women.” Hotchner declares.

“Oh, boy. Hey, Spence, I might have a few questions for you.” Emily jokes, and Morgan and J.J laugh with her, but Spencer ignores her. _He must be used to it._

“It might not be necessarily that he struggles interacting with women.” Rossi shakes his finger as he turns to face Hotch. “It _is_ safe to say that he struggles interacting with women he’s _interested_ in, though.”

“Call Garcia.” Morgan nods to J.J., who clicks around on the laptop in front of her. When Garcia appears on the screen, Morgan nods at her in greetings. “Hey, mama. Can you do something for me?”

“ _Only if you can do something for me,”_ she purrs.

“Watch your mouth, sweetheart, we got newbies around.”

“Well, they can join in, if they like. More fun for everyone. What can I do for you, sweet cheeks?”

The new agent’s eyes go wide. Hotch briefly shakes his head.

“Is it possible for you to check and see if a man within 25 miles of both crime scenes has submitted a relationship request to a woman on social media that has gone ignored or denied?” He makes an aside to the team. “He wouldn’t make the move in-person.”

“You got it!” Garcia promises. She stays on the line, but is clearly enveloped in his request as she types away.

Y/N bites her lip, thinking. Her lip drags out from between her teeth, and she addresses the group. “So, 25 to 30, white guy. He’s young, ergo Morgan’s idea about the social media.” She gestures to Morgan, but the rest of her stays where it was-- she’s focused. “He’s intimidated by a specific type of woman, and/or women he’s interested in. So, there must be an abusive female figure in his history, but she wasn’t abusive physically-- therefore, his kill was as pain-free as possible.” She says, now musing instead of lecturing.

Prentiss adds on. “Of course. Victims will abuse others the same way that they were abused. Our unsub wasn’t shot in the head as a kid, clearly, so it must have been emotional abuse. So, he kills in the fashion he believes is the least painful and most respectful. He doesn’t want to cause physical pain.”

“U-unless the unsub feels that the shot to the head is reflective of the abuse he received, because as a child, his _mind_ was damaged.” Reid stutters at first, but grows more confident as he continues.

“Yes,” Y/N agrees. “He’s also capable of firing a .22 to kill two men, and it couldn’t have been self-defense, since the M.O. points to premeditated. He cleaned the wound…” She opens her phone and makes a note, typing.

“What?” Derek asks.

“Reminding myself to examine the wound more closely,” She tucks her phone away. “If he was nervous enough, he either caused micro-tears in the wound while cleaning the skin too harshly or he didn’t clean it well enough because he was afraid to make matters worse somehow.”

“So, all we’re missing is a connection between the two victims and the identity of the woman that our unsub is killing for.” Hotch concludes. “Gar--”

“Already on it, sir!” Garcia’s voice and her keyboard strokes come from the laptop, just before the video call ends.

“She’s great.” Y/N laughs a little, having gotten enough of an ego-boost from her own good work to make an off-topic comment like that. “Hey, doctor, do you think that finding this unsub’s social media accounts can help us with fu…” She looks up, and notices that Reid must have just left the room, leaving the door to the kitchenette still swinging. “...ture cases.”

Silence. Just for a few breaths.

“ _Yes, in fact, I do, we’ll probably see a productivity increase by 2 percent if we’re able to do that!”_ Emily mocks. Derek does that perfect, head-shaking laugh, and J.J. gives Emily a little jab on the shoulder while giggling. Even the corners of Hotchner’s lips turn up.

Y/N laughs a little, too, but the smile doesn’t reach her eyes. She watches the door as it settles and closes.

~

"So there was _nothing._ Nothing but the gunshot wound.”

Prentiss is annoyed. She told Y/N on the way there that looking at the bodies always helped her with victimology and that the photos weren’t enough, so she was sure she’d get some sort of lead from coming to the morgue. She also divulged that she hated looking at bodies, and Y/N made a joke about being cursed.

“I’m… really sorry, but no. Nothing.” The medical examiner apologizes. He clearly hasn’t ever had to work with the FBI before. Y/N’s grown used to the wariness that people have around her and her coworkers by now, but she still doesn’t like it. They act like she’s a cop. She hopes she can one day help clarify the essential difference between cops and the FBI; one of them is _actually_ on your side.

“It’s alright, Prentiss.” She steps up, taking another closer look at the gunshot wound. “Now we can check out what I was talking about earlier.” She mutters, already leaning down to inspect the dark red cavity pierced through the skull of the body. “Can you tell me more about the gunshot wound, please?” She asks, directing her question towards the M.E. as she leans around the slab.

“Sure. Not much of anything special. It’s made by a .22, it was cleaned by isopr--”

“Isopropyl alcohol and a rag, and you couldn’t determine if it was before or after death.” She tosses her hair out of her face as she looks up at the M.E. “Did you take a closer look, by any chance?” She says, not realizing how accusatory it sounded.

The M.E. cleared his throat. “No, I figured it was cut-and-dry.”

“It never is.” She mutters to herself, mantra-like.

To the naked eye, sure, it’s a clean shot, but the first thing she noticed when she came into the room was that the wound was _perfectly_ clean. So, if her earlier theory was correct, then the inside of the wound on the newer body should have microtears that would have healed by now.

“You have any magnifying equipment? I need to look inside of it.” She asks.

For the first few inches inside of the bullet-made, straight tunnel, she saw little ravines between the pillows of grey-red flesh. “There’s some signs of swelling between the microabrasions, which means the unsub started to clean the wound right before the victim passed. Swelling is one of the body’s first reactions.” She gently lays a gloved hand on the forehead, and pulls on the skin even gentler. “This wasn’t an instant death, even though it was a headshot. He knows to aim for the head, like everyone does, but he didn’t know _where_ at the head to aim.”

Emily leans back a little, trying to change her perspective. “The unsub’s shorter than him.”

“What?”

“He’s shorter. Come here, look from where I’m standing.”

Y/N did as she suggested, and noticed that the tunnel was made from below.

“That’s a significant height difference. He’s at _least_ four inches shorter than this guy.” She shakes her head. “But that doesn’t make any sense-- how did our guy get him not to fight back? The unsub’s shorter, and this body has no ligature marks on it.”

“Smaller people are faster.” Emily offers.

“Not necessarily, actually, that stereotype comes from--” her ringtone cuts her off.

**Doctor Spencer Reid**

**work**

**slide to answer**

  
  


* * *

These blankets are pretty luxurious for someone of this socioeconomic background. The mattress is also a name-brand, one of those remote-controlled ones that can lift and lower both ends. This family spent their money on self-indulgent items, even though their income doesn’t necessarily refle

“Reid.” Morgan interrupts.

“Yes?”

“Why does that matter?”

“Was I talking out loud?”

Morgan looks away, and there’s a look on his face like he smells something bad, so he must not care enough to continue that dialogue.

I stand up and peel the blue gloves from my hands, already uncomfortable with the way my skin feels after being trapped with nothing but its own oils. The fabric that my slacks are made of is good at absorbing it, though.

“There’s not much here for us to go on.” Morgan looks around the room one last time. His stance as he does so looks nothing but model-like. “Come on, let’s follow up with Garcia.” He doesn’t look at me as he leaves the room while pulling out his phone, but I know he wants me to follow.

“You’re on speaker, mama.” I catch up with him on the lawn. Morgan stands with his hand on his hip, speaking into the butt of the phone. The grass out here has been cut recently. Something about that makes me sad.

“Hey, babes. I’m really sorry, but the social media search you suggested came up with nothing.”

Nothing at all?

“Nothin’? It’s  _ you.  _ What’d you look for?” Morgan asks, his neck twitching back like he’s in shock, too.

“First of all, do _not_ shame me for something out of my control, and second, not that you’d totally understand how I work my magic, but I’ll try to explain it anyway.” Is that sentence grammatically correct? “I checked all social media accounts on Facebook made by men who currently live within 25 miles of either crime scene, like you suggested, but…” Not completely, no, it isn’t. Why does she sound guilty now? “... none of them have sent relationship requests. Accepted, denied, or unanswered! I even checked for ones sent to women outside the area.”

Morgan grunts. “Alright. Guess everyone’s gettin’ busy around here. Thanks, baby-girl.”  _ Click. _ Another phone call ending in an implied, improper ‘goodbye.’ Thank-you’s, sure, but not good-byes. No one on this team ever says goodbye.

What about people  _ not _ in the team?

“Who’re you calling?” Morgan nods at me.

“Y/L/N.”

Morgan opens his mouth, and then closes it. What? What do you have to say? I’m only asking for help because _you_ need it, _not_ me.

“Hey, doctor. Everything okay?” Her voice comes through the phone so clearly.

“Ah-- um. Yeah. I, uh-- I-I just wanted to ask for some-- for your perspective. On something.” You idiot. Speak normally.

“Alright, go ahead. You’re on speaker.”

“W-well, Garcia just called and told us that her search for unrequited relationship requests on social media from men within the area came up blank. I was looking around the Butcher house, and I noticed that James and his fiancee seemed to spend most of their money on things they use frequently. For example, their bed set was high-end, everything down to even the mattress itself would have cost at least 12 thousand dollars. They also had a high-end toilet and a large refrigerator.”

“Okay,  _ slow--”  _ Prentiss starts talking, a little more distant, but Y/N cuts her off.

“So they’re younger.” That… wasn’t phrased like a question. She saw where I was going with that. How did she make that connection?

“Uh-- precisely--”

“How do you get that idea?” Morgan asks, his face all scrunched up.

“Well--”

“Actually-- oh. Uh, g-go ahead, Y/N.”

Morgan stares at me, even though Y/N is talking.

“People born in this specific sub-generation tend to spend their money more intelligently. There’s a 12 percent dip in debt for this age group compared to the one that comes before it. There was a program required in public schools in this area that promoted smart spending while both our victims were in middle school, but it was cancelled three years later for funding reasons.”

Completely, 100% correct.

Morgan nods silently, and she continues on the other end. “How old are Cucchio and Butcher?” She asks, but it’s quieter, so I assume she’s talking to the medical examiner. A strange voice on the other line, further away from the mic, responds with “Both were 21.”

Wait, what month?

“What month?” She asks, again towards the M.E., but she leans into the phone microphone to say “Jinx.” I must have been thinking out loud again.

“Butcher in April, and Cucchio in July.”

Yes! “So they’re in the same graduating class!”

“And the unsub must know them from high school!” Her voice tweaks at the end in precious excitement.

“You should call Garcia. Great job, Y/N!” I hang up the phone. My mouth feels… strange, having moved in that way, in that sequence of muscle twitches, to say her first name.

Morgan has that accursed look on his face, the one he makes when he sees me doing something that he assumes to be promiscuous or otherwise ‘un-Spencer-like.’

“Get your head out of the gutter, agent,” I mutter, jaw tense, as I walk away to dial Garcia.

I don’t have to be within ear shot to know he jeers in return, “My man.”

* * *

She wasted no time ending the call with Spencer to call Garcia, even though her stomach felt a little wobbly after hearing someone on the team call her by first name for the first time.

“Hey, new girl! Whatcha got for me?”

“Hi! We got a breakthrough-- both of these victims were in the same graduating class, so they must have attended the same high school, right?”

“ _Uno momento,”_ Garcia says in an accent that is _not_ Spanish. “And… yes! Both attended KCHS.”

“Narrow our current suspect list down to those who attended KCHS within the same timeframe that both of our victims attended, either in higher or lower grades.”

_Higher or lower grades… no, I can narrow further._

“Actually, wait, Garcia?”

“Yes, my fresh-faced crime fighter?”

She blushes, the way that she would when her grandma comments on her height. “What social media platforms did you search through?”

“Facebook.”

“Oh, Reid, you _genius!_ ” She exclaims, as if she were alone. “Garcia, you didn’t find anything with the social media search because Facebook is used by an older demographic! Run the same check with social media platforms that have a younger demographic, like Twitter, Tumblr, Instagram! Our unsub is _younger_ than our victims, probably a freshman while they were seniors!”

“You’ve got it, lizard brain! I’ll get back to you.”

She tucks her phone away and immediately goes for a high-five, which Emily slowly returns.

“What?”

“Nothing! Nothing at all…” Emily smirks, muttering something under her breath.

 _“ What?”_ she nudges her.

“I said, ‘nothing at all, _Mrs. Doctor_.’”

“Oh, shush!” She rolls her eyes, nudging Emily a little, as they start to leave the M.E.’S office. “Just because we make a good team…”

“Oh, of course not.” She waves her hand, assuring her without her having to finish the sentence. “You guys _definitely_ do make a good team.” Her voice was saturated in sarcasm.

Y/N shakes her head and bites her cheek as the two make their way to the parking lot.

As they get into the car together, Emily’s phone buzzes. “Garcia got a hit through a Tumblr account, his name’s Oliver Beckett, sent anonymous message after message to a woman named Jennifer Richard, same graduating class of our victims. I’ve got the address, floor it!”

The car sputters to life, and Y/N switches the siren on.


	3. Departure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary  
> The B.A.U. gets a win. Y/N and Reid get an additional loss.  
> \--  
> hint: it’s not really a loss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for the support! i love when ppl comment and if you do you’ll definitely get a response. i just got back into writing with this piece so if you have any advice (or compliments) let me know!! i am also looking for a beta bc my one friend is busy so if ur interested lmk!

They always look mangy. It makes sense to her, obviously, that they always look mangy-- the unsubs she works hard to take down spend all their time killing others, so, as all hatred comes from insecurity, hygiene is gonna be the least of their worries. Unless they’re a Bundy type. Those guys have to be clean to do their killing. But she doesn’t consider those instances to be hygiene. To her, that’s performative, deceptive self-care.

Now that she’s looking at him through the interview room window, she can see that Oliver Beckett is _not_ a Bundy type. He’s more of a Dahmer. He’s shy, modest, and tragically decent. He reminds her of a case from her past unit, when she was a fresh transfer from the civil rights branch. A man who was abused by his adoptive mother as a kid searched out information on his biological mother, then used that profile as a surrogate. Even though she worked the closest to that case, she still didn’t understand why he looked for surrogates for his biological mother, not the abuse. While working on the case, she was so positive that he wasn’t the killer because he had such coy behavior in the interview room. It ended up hindering their progress, and it cost a woman’s life. A diner waitress, Dottie Coolidge. That was the last time Y/N ever made that mistake.

Y/N can’t help but shake her head.

“I know.” Emily begins to offer her sympathy.

“No, no, it’s not that.” Y/N knows Emily is referring to the misfortune of crime. “Remember-- I’ve taken down guys worse than this, just like you guys have. The problem is _us_.”

That gets both of their attention.

“We should have got more evidence before we made this arrest. The toughest jury can still have reasonable doubt if he doesn’t confess.” She shakes her head, her hand turning up in the air as she maligns herself. _We got too fucking cocky._

“It won’t be a problem to get a confession here. Those who suffer from borderline personality disorder, which Beckett has shown six of the nine required diagnostic criteria listed in the DSM-V in the time that he’s been detained a _lone_ , are inconsistent when recalling stressful situations,” Reid says, turning to the door, “so whatever officer has to interview this guy won’t have to force a confession. He’ll dig himself a hole.” His voice becomes more dismissive, careless, the longer he speaks. As she and Emily follow behind Reid, Y/N starts to appreciate Reid’s shared, plainly-spoken distaste for criminals.

Before the three are able to leave, a young, wide-eyed cop peeks in.

“Hey, uh-- sorry to interrupt, but-uh, we just got a call from your unit chief asking for Agent Prentiss to return to assist with notifications, and we were looking for some advice on interviewing tactics.”

After she pulls out her phone, no doubt to check if Hotch called her first before he called the station, Prentiss mutters something to herself about ‘always being picked’ before she leaves the room, pushing past the short cop.

Reid sticks one finger up, as if to raise the officer’s attention. “Um-- was Hotchner made aware that we’re being asked to stay a little longer? We’re supposed to be regrouping now.” He asks.

“I dunno, I was just sent to inform you. I’m sure he knows.”

Reid nods. “Where, uh, where are we needed?”

* * *

~

Y/N could be an educator if she wanted to. Her and I spent about an hour helping the force set up for Beckett’s interrogation, but really, she led the lesson. She was skilled at explaining topics that were otherwise completely unfamiliar to these guys-- she used analogies and prior experience to help them understand, like a legitimate teacher would. It made me wonder if she had a positive relationship with her interview strategy professor. I found, after a night of insomnia and what I consider Garcia-adjacent research (at least proportional to my skill), that his name was David James. She was probably his star pupil. Yes, I have researched  _ all _ of my coworkers.

For such a highly populated city, the police were inadequately trained. They wouldn’t admit it, but they were definitely unaware that you’re allowed to lie to a detainee about how much evidence you have against them to encourage a confession. Luckily, the police didn’t have to use that tactic before they were ready to while with Beckett tonight. I stood alongside Y/N, watching from behind the glass, as Beckett accepted defeat. It was hard to listen to him explaining his own bastardized logic for what he did.

His confession did help ease my mind a bit, though. Earlier, when Y/N said we didn’t have enough evidence to prove beyond a reasonable doubt against Beckett, I was so upset that I almost defied her. Her and I worked so hard, so _well_ together, when we talked about the victim’s financial responsibility. I didn’t know how she could possibly say that. Then, the confession came in, and it didn’t matter anymore. Well, not in any important, work-related way.

Once the confession was official and our job was truly finished, and after an extra 20 minutes or so of legal processes, the weather had gotten violent. We didn’t know it, but the cell reception was out for most of the time we were held up. When we got to the station foyer on the way out, we were both hit with a bunch of missed call notifications and texts.

“Oh,  _ ab _ solutely fucking not.” Y/N starts, holding her hand out to get my attention. She turns her phone around, the screen facing me. “Hotch sent this ten minutes ago.”

**Aaron Hotchner**

**Where are you two?**

**Let me know you’re safe, please.**

**Garcia informed us that the signal**

**is weak in your area due to the**

**weather. If we don’t take off, we’ll**

**get stuck, too. I’ve transferred**

**the appropriate funds needed for**

**gas and lodging. Drive safe. Call**

**when you get this.**

“Wait, he didn’t know we were staying behind to help?”

“I guess not.” She shakes her head and types out a response. He asked her to call.

Outside, the world is grey and grainy as the rain nearly fills the air. How was I not aware of this oncoming, disastrous-level storm? Did I not check the weather this morning? 

“He’s really going to make us drive 17 hours in this weather?”

“18 hours, actually,  _ because of _ that weather. If we don’t make stops, we’ll get back to Quantico by 11 A.M. tomorrow.” She touches her phone a few more times, most likely closing whatever application she used to get that information, before tucking it away in her trousers. She looks… comfortable in trousers. As opposed to the skirt.

“Reid.”

“Yes?”

“Let’s go. The rain’s slowing down a little, I don’t wanna wait any longer before we run to the car.”

“Right, right. Sorry.” How has she accepted this cataclysm already?

I hate the way rain feels. Especially when it’s this goddamn thick. The water droplets trick you into thinking they’re steady in size and temperature and speed as they pummel down from the heavens, but then suddenly, a cold, heavy drop hits you on the ankle even though you only wear ankle-high socks that cover that area and now you have to deal with the way wet leather feels when it rubs against your cotton socks. To help ignore the feeling, I focus on her heels as we run across the parking lot. They always landed on a safe, flat part of the asphalt. The chances of her tripping in this environment are abysmal.

“Reid!”

I look up. We’re both standing at the passenger side door now.

“Oh, I don’t-- um. The chances of death behind the wheel are incredibly high across every single age group, and it continues to be the single highest, uh…”

I’m sure I stutter on for longer as she wordlessly turns and scampers to the other side of the car. Once we were safely inside, I’m reminded of the lasting symptoms of being in the rain-- dealing with wet clothes in an otherwise dry and warm place. The stickiness-- it feels like humidity trapped against my skin.

Y/N presses a button on the console a few times. It has a symbol of a seat with heat waves below it. She turns her seat warmer up, too.

“How’d you afford this car? Your pay rank is G-12 and this is a year and a half’s salary on that level.”

“What the hell, Reid?” Her hair is damp, stuck flat to her forehead, which is scrunched up now. Most of her white button-up has turned a darker gray from the precipitation, too.

She leans down, moving her face into my line of sight.

“S-sorry, I say dumb things when I’m cold.” 

She leans to start the car. 

“It’s-- it’s fine.” She says. She waves her hand, and makes a face that’s almost dismissive. She wasn’t lying-- she really didn’t mind that shitty excuse. “Just, uh, call Hotch and let him know we’re safe.” She starts tucking her phone into some hands-free cell phone contraption stuck to her dash. On the screen is a digital map with a route highlighted.

“Driving is a task that requires active attention, both cognitively and visually. ‘Hands-free’ doesn’t mean anything.” I say, pointing to her phone. I meet eyes with her. “Uh, why don’t you give him a call now, and when we leave, I’ll tell you which exits to take?”

She looks over at me, and-- of course-- has one of those expressions that I always have to ask for clarification on. “Is your smile from being upset at my unperceived cluelessness or are you actually happy?”

She laughs, once, like a friendly scoff. She takes her phone off of the dash. “It’s just… funny.”

Funny? “How?”

She uses her phone, the screen lighting up her face. The bump of her nose reminds me of an author I met once. She was a smart woman. The dorsal hump, although now considered undesirable, used to be a sign of intelligence during the Victorian era. “The unit, they probably all think that your gift is only useful for work purposes.” She raises her phone to her ear. “Except, there you are, convincing me to not do something that I want to do.” She turns her head, engaging me. “That’s rare.”

Just like that. So simply, she tells me that the most special quality about me, the quality that makes people around me say, ‘I wish I never asked,’ has personal, beneficial use. I want to question how she could think that, but I’m reminded of all the other times she proved me wrong, made me second guess myself. I never thought I would thank someone for making me silently accept something I don’t totally understand.

Thank you.

She looks at me. I didn’t notice… she has a freckle under her eye. “No problem, Spence.” Her voice is so soft, just for that moment. “Yeah, hey, Hotch, we just got out…”

* * *

~

She would’ve been warm and dry by now if Spencer didn’t also try to get into the passenger seat when they were back in Kansas City. If it weren’t for that interaction, though, then she would have missed out on the ones that came right after: Spencer’s zoned-out staring at her pants when they were in the station foyer, then at her shirt in the car, and then the sweet, watchful way he hid his protectiveness behind facts about hands-free cell use while driving. And that voice. That voice he used when he thanked her. He sounded like… she didn’t know. He sounded like the way a blush would sound.

Once, when she was 14, her and her family were driving away from a brewing hurricane after they were shooed off of the beach. It was one of the worst hurricanes Seattle ever saw. She peered through the window and watched the tires roll through the shallow inch of water all the way home. Whenever she’d glance to the windshield from the backseat, the water running down the glass looked like how it did when they drove through those colorful, drive-thru car washes. Waves of blurriness that she wanted to touch, to see if the water felt as smooth as it looked. Except this time, nearly two hours into this drive, passing cornfield after rest stop, there isn’t any colored soap for the water to wash away. Her and Spencer are driving 45 miles an hour somewhere along the border of Illinois and Kentucky, and the storm is enveloping the American south, shadowing over them, as they drive through.

She was too focused on making sure they didn’t hydroplane that she never turned on the regular heater. The seat warmer kept her warm enough not to think about it, but Spencer was the first to notice that her arms slowly tensed closer and closer to her chest as she drove, trying to preserve her body heat.

Spencer leans forward and turns on the heat, at a low, but noticeable setting.

She looks at his long, bony fingers turning the dial, for just a moment, before looking back at the road.

“I don’t know how I didn’t turn that on yet.” She cuts the silence.

“Like I said before, driving is a very engaging task. In a storm, no less.” He responded. She realized just how _leggy_ he was. Her car had more than enough space for him to move the chair back, but instead, he sat there, resembling a mantis, with his folded, twiggy limbs.

“Well, thank you.” She comments, referring to the heat. She feels her muscles loosen as her instinct to keep warm fades.

He clears his throat. “I was starting to get cold, too.”

She smiles to herself. _What a pleasant lie._ If he was comfortable enough to change the car settings for his own comfort, he’d have adjusted the seat, too.

She turns up the radio again, and they continue on in almost-comfortable silence.

“Do you want to switch off driving, so we get there earlier, or do you wanna stop somewhere for the night?” She turns down the volume on the radio. They’d driven another half hour.

“20 percent of fatal accidents are a result of drowsy drivers. That’s 7,019 people.”

“O-kay.”

The two sit in silence for a moment before Reid probably thinks he’s expected to find a place to say, so he scrambles for his phone. “Do you have any preferences, for, um, places to stay?”

“Motel 6 isn’t as bad as everyone says it is. Sometimes some of the people on the same floor as you have dogs with them.”

He smiles. “The six it is.”

“What are you smilin’ at, punk?”

“ _Punk?_ Where’d that come from?” He says, incredulously. He has a toothy smile on.

She isn’t sure where it came from. Maybe she was just happy to finally be talking. The silence was starting to get to her.

“I dunno,” she tells the truth, “you kinda have punk hair.”

“Punk started in the mid-1970’s as a subculture surrounding punk rock music and the alternative fashion choices that came along with it. Quickly, political affiliations became a significant pillar of what punk was defined by, but people have this preconceived notion that left-leaning and anarchal ideals are inherently punk, but the complete opposite of the spectrum also had a place in the culture, in fact a common code used within the community, _lace code,_ where punks ladder-lace their boots with colored laces that correspond to political and racial views, has _multiple_ right-leaning and even nazi-affiliated codes.”

She knew that already. She... had a phase.

“Did you know that the straight-edge scene spouts from punk?” She offers.

He turns and looks at her with such shock in his eyes.

“What?” She looks concerned.

“No, no-- nothing’s wrong, don’t worry.” He recognizes her expression. “It’s, just, um… you didn’t…”

“Tell you that I don’t care?”

He licks his lips, and looks down. “Yeah.” _That vocal blush again._

“Well…” She starts, but she isn’t sure where to go.

“But, yes. I did know.” He answers, his voice louder, solid again. She laughs, gesturing as if to say, ‘of course.’ “You know, it is pretty interesting how it came about. The punk scene is one of those cultures that those on the outside would look in, and think, oh, they’re definitely on drugs, but the culture was strangely the opposite, personally I think it had to do with their anti-consumerist values shifting over into vegan living and being completely drug-free, including prescription medications.” 

“Gotta stick it to big pharma.”

“Honestly, they’re not far off.”

“Yeah? You’re a fed who’s anti-capitalist?”

He gives a good, real laugh. “I was _saying,”_ he grabs her attention, grounding her from her own laughter, “that I totally understand being anti-pharmaceutical organizations. The medicine trade has a lot of issues.”

She smiles. She agrees-- it’s absurd, how much insulin costs. From what she could tell, at least 10% of her grandfather’s income was spent on insulin.

They continued to spout facts back and forth, mixed in with their own thoughts, about all sorts of things. They touched on music history, then the Great Depression, then the surge of the entertainment industry in the 40’s. They even, although _very_ briefly, talked about the history of sex in the U.S., before Reid suddenly asked her what her favorite topic in school was. Before they both know it, it’s nearly midnight, and Spencer is pointing to their motel across the intersection they were about to pass.

“Oh, good. I can’t wait to stretch out.”

She should’ve expected him to get two rooms. Their lodging was being paid for, so why would he try to save money by getting a double-bed room?

“Do you want 323 or 324?” They stopped between the two rooms’ doors.

“What?”

“Room number. 323 or 324?”

“323 sounds like a haunted room number.”

His chest concaves a little in a chuckle. Even when he stands, he slouches. _He’s so slim._

“Then hopefully I’ll come out with the ability to read minds.” He smirks.

_Oh-- The Shining. Duh._

“Um-- it’s from--”

“The Shining, I know, Reid.” She waves, warding off embarrassment. “I’m… too tired to remember Stephen King novel plot points right now.”

His cheeks twitch, and he presses his lips together. Mentally, she mentally documents a third Spencer Reid smile.

The first was where his lips disappear into a straight line, and the corners of his mouth get all fat. He does it for just a split second after he rattles off some facts, or when he has to explain something particularly macabre. It’s like a, sorry, but, you know how it is, kind of smile. The second was a real one. He smiles with his teeth when he’s truly happy. Almost like the smile he gave in the car after she called him punk, but that one had a little bit of shock mixed into it. She didn’t see the actual second smile in person. There was a photo of him on a table outside Hotch’s office, sitting next to other team photos. In it, Spencer was wearing a baseball cap, standing in front of a chicken wire fence, squinting his eyes in the sun. And he had this big, wide, Hallmark smile on. She saw that photo after her initial interview, nearly two weeks ago. Then, there’s this new, third smile. This one’s an in-between of one and two-- he clearly wants to smile his second smile, but something holds him back, and so instead, he pushes against the urge, which makes him make this goofy face.

The door lock beeps as she presses her keycard against it.

“‘Night, Reid.”

“Good night, Y/N.”

* * *

I stand and wait in front of my room, until she walks into hers, smiles at me one last time, and disappears behind the door. I feel my neck give out, and my head lolls forward, laying against the cold plaque on the door.

As of current year, there are 171,476 words recognized as relevant by the Oxford English Dictionary, with 47,156 recently considered non-relevant, and an additional few hundred estimated slang words. In 2010, linguistics experts at Harvard decided that there have been around 1,022,000 words in the English language over time. I’ve read them all. There is no word to describe the feeling of, or the reality of, wanting something you cannot have.


	4. Cheerleader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary  
> Y/N and Spencer draft a contract together.  
> \--  
> it took me 4 chapters but we’re finally getting to the actual story that i promised u

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy god the hits on this fic!!!! thank u so much i am such a lucky lady!!! the comments are so sweet too yall are so kind. please keep them coming, they let me know that this is as good as i think it is LOL  
> also, reminder, please use the extension i have listed in chapter 1 that will replace y/n with your name, it is much more immersive this way!! another thing i’d like to hear from yall is if i’m being good with the reader insert. I want this fic to be able to have any kind of woman, any race, size, whatever. in this chapter i have a single descriptor of the reader that says she has small hands with thick fingers so if u dont then just,, ignore and self-insert. sure i’m a white woman w long straight hair who is totally projecting as much as she can onto this fic but it doesn’t mean i’m not responsible for making sure this story can fit a bald asian queen or an afro-wearin goddess. keep me in check <3

“Wake up, doctor!” Her voice chimes into my consciousness.

I probably grunt in response, sitting straight up. I can feel the colicks on the back of my head already. Crap, I didn’t bring that hair wax that Rossi gave me.

“Come on, open up.” She’s definitely more awake than I am. I can hear it in her voice. I pull my cardigan around a little tighter, now that the blanket slinks off of me. I can already tell that I’m going to need to wash this-- it smells like this motel. “Oh, sleeping  _ beau- _ ty!” She calls not from the main entrance, but from the door that connects our two rooms. I look around, and decide my room is clean enough for a visitor-- the only mess is my pile of clothes from yesterday near the foot of the bed.

Opening the adjoining door felt strange. Not the act itself, but removing what separated where we’d both slept the night before. Wow, I need to pee.

She was ready to leave. Dressed again in her white button up, loose-fitted blazer, and those same trousers and heels. Her hair was down, though. I clear my throat.

“M’morning.”

She-- did she just--

“Uh, good morning. Sorry, I… didn’t realize that you were still actually sleeping.”

“‘S fine, don’t worry.”

She  _ did _ moan! I know, because she just did it again. That, and her inability to focus on conversation...

“Uh, it’s a little late, so-- I mean, it’s fine, I don’t blame you for sleeping in, but we should leave soon. If we leave in a half hour, we’ll get back home by 9.” She relaxes her shoulders, and her head turns to the side a little. Subconsciously exposing her neck and chest....

Oh, Christ. This is sexual arousal.

_ Me? _

“ _ Okay. _ ” I basically squeak.

She swallows. I can see the muscles move on her throat. 

“Okay. Uh, don’t go back to bed. I’ll knock again in a bit.”

* * *

She shuts the door with a nod and a smile, one that she can _feel_ the weirdness in. Once the door’s shut, she turns and rests her back against it, exhaling.

Jesus _Christ,_ she’s attracted to that morning voice. He sounded so deep, rumbly. To hear that innocent, goofy, borderline feminine voice turn into _that_ \-- she just wanted to hear him _talk_ . And his hair-- how do you wake up and manage to look like a perfect mess? I mean, his hair always looks purposefully tousled, but standing right across from him in his pajamas just a moment ago ( _shit, I didn’t even look at what he was wearing!)_ , she could see that this time, it was organic.

She should have just waited to get ready until she woke Spencer up. Now, she has to sit there, waiting, cursed by her unprofessional thoughts.

* * *

Kind of surprising how a Motel 6’s shower doesn’t get cold right after flushing the toilet. It actually should be impossible, considering how many water lines would be in this building and--

_ “Ah!” _

_ God,  _ I am sick of negative experiences with water these past two days.

She stands in front of the mirror, staring herself down. She just finished cleaning up her room and re-packing her bag, and now, she’s cursing herself again for doing everything she could have possibly done to get ready before waking Spencer. She even did her eyebrows today. She never does that. Actually, she thinks they could use a little fixing…

* * *

I feel like a dog being wiped down after a bath, bent over while ruffling the towel in my hair. After sufficiently drying myself, I try to push down the colicks that withstood through the shower, but they keep bouncing back up.

Alright, spiky-messy hair for today, then.

I feel my lips twitch up, smiling, as I recall something.

_ “I dunno,” she tells the truth, “you kinda have punk hair.” _

* * *

_Just unbutton it, coward. It’s not like your whole rack is out._

She pulls her collar apart, after giving in and unbuttoning the third button down on her shirt. The cold air hits her chest, though, making her feel exposed, so she pulls it back together. She continues fussing with it, and then eventually starts pulling on her trousers, trying to shape her hips.

“Y/N?”

She almost screams when she hears his voice again, her heart is beating so fast. His voice has stabilized since-- _thank God, I don’t know how much more of his purring I could’ve taken._

“Coming!” she says, mentally scolding herself for starting to make the obvious dirty joke to herself.

* * *

The door opens.

“Ready?” I ask, nice and calm. It’s not a big deal, blood is less regulated during sleep which causes increased blood flow to the genitals and can cause arousal in the morning for women, it  _ happens, _ it’s whatever.

Oh. She unbuttoned her third button. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

* * *

_Ha! He looked!_

“Yeah, you?” Her voice came out stable, bright. She’s glad she decided on the third button.

“Yep.” There was that meek voice of his again.

“Great, let’s go.” She nods into her room, leading the two of them to the door.

* * *

I trail behind her, keeping my eyes to the ground.  _ Not _ at her trousers. At the different trousers than yesterday, that seemed higher-waisted. Thinner fabric, too. I can see the pointed outline of the back of her heels, the part that covers her achilles heel, when her foot is at the back of her stride. I can’t help it-- I look.

There are no outlines on her ass.

* * *

Reid nearly bumps her, trying to get to the door first. He pulls it open, moving out of her path.

“After you.” he mutters, clearly a little self-conscious.

 _Yeah, I_ bet _, after me._

* * *

~

“Okay, so, we’ve got options.” Reid starts. “There’s a Starbucks half a mile ahead, most of their food menu is breakfast, and then, of course, the coffee. Then, there’s like a dozen American fast food places, so, we have the egg, cheese, and sausage sandwiches that they all sell. And then there’s a diner right over here.” He talks a bit slower than normal, stopping to rub his eyes. He’s a lot more expressive when he’s not focused on work. There’s a lot different about him when he’s not working, really. More expressive, uses more relaxed language. He doesn’t just talk when he needs to.

“As much as I’d love to have a diner experience right now, I really wanna get home, so.” She reaches for the turn signal, seeing the Starbucks ahead. “You seem like a coffee guy. Are you?”

“What?” He laughs a little, his head rearing back in confusion. Back in the hotel room, she thought his voice had steadied out, but his voice was still lower than usual. “Please define ‘coffee guy.’”

“What do you mean, _define coffee guy?_ It means you like coffee, you drink coffee.” She plays back.

“The way you asked it implied that ‘coffee guy’ means more than being a fan of coffee.”

She turns into the drive-thru. For the middle of fucking nowhere, there was a good line.

“I mean, it can be. There’s people who drink coffee, and then there’s people whose entire aesthetic is the word ‘bookish.’” She laughs a little at her own explanation. Then, jokingly, she makes a point to look at him, look down his body, and then back up. Looking back forward, she decides to stay silent, wanting to catch his reaction.

“What?” He asks, softly. A smile starts to form. “No, say it.” He sits up, prodding her.

“Oh, please. You can’t be _that_ unassuming!” She exclaims.

“You’ve known me for,” he looks at the clock, “2 days, 8 hours, and 22 minutes. You’ve undoubtedly discovered that I often miss social cues by now. So, please, explain to me why you’ve just checked me out.”

She laughs, letting her head roll back. “Okay! Fine. Well… let’s start here. You know what a bookish aesthetic looks like, yes?”

He was engrossed. He was doing that same smile from last night-- his cheeks were twitching, and his lips were pressed into a small, smiling circle. Dubiously, lowly, he replies, playing the game.

“Yes.”

“Okay. Can you tell me, doctor,” She pulls up in line, “what that looks like to you?”

He looks away from her, thinking, but that smile of his didn’t fade. For _just_ a moment, he looks down at himself, obviously for reference.

“That! That _right_ there, _that_ is why I checked you out!” She points, accusing. “Because you are a _perfect_ specimen of that aesthetic _and_ you’re aware of it!”

Her heart stops as she turns to glance at him once more. _There it is. Right in front of me. Smile number three. Toothy, big. Perfectly dimpled._

He laughs out, “Okay, fine! You got me,” his voice cracks a little as he goes, “I am a... ‘coffee guy.’”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” she says over him, proudly shrugging.

“Alright, alright.” He douses her pride. “If you’re so proud of yourself, then keep showing off your profiling skills. Guess my order.” He gestures forward, and she sees that it’s their turn.

He’s playing the game right back. _Okay._ She pulls forward and rolls the window down.

“Hi! Can I have the spinach, feta, and egg wrap, and then a tall dark roast with heavy cream and a shot? And then…” She turns her head slowly to face Spencer, but her expression doesn’t say ‘what about you?’ No, no-- it says, ‘you ready for this?’

She looks up at his hair, an expression of examination spreading on her face. She takes her sweet time as she looks down his face, watching how his jaw moves as he smiles, and notices the day-two stubble. His brow flicks up, questioning, so she keeps going, not wanting to spend too much time on one spot. This was all a joke, not a direct flirt, and she needed to show that. So, she looks down at his shirt, then his pants, and then even leans over obnoxiously to look down at his shoes. He scoffs, rolls his eyes, as she makes a big show of it all.

“And the Impossible Sandwich, with a grande blonde, whole milk, and--” she makes a point to lean and look at his shoes just _one_ last time, which earns a louder laugh, “ _three_ shots.”

She can see him poking his tongue against his cheek, looking out the window. He’s bouncing his leg. _Ha! Gotcha._

“That’ll be it.” She says to the ordering window, but she’s staring _right_ at him.

He shakes his head, matching her gaze. She rolls up the window.

They were wordless as they waited for their turn to pay. She hands him his drink and the bag of food, and drives off. He sits there, still bouncing his leg. Begrudgingly, he lifts the drink.

“Did I get it right?” She begs, _just_ before it touches his lips.

“Shut up.” He sips it.

“Can I ask you something?” He asks, meekly.

They finished their food a few minutes ago and were on the road, 12 hours of driving stretched in front of them. Ever since then, Reid’s been bouncing his leg. She concluded that he does that when he wants to say something.

“Yeah, what’s up?” She responds cooly, hoping it helps to ease whatever plagues him.

“Well… when I heard that you were transferring, I… looked into your professional achievements.” He said, _so_ full of shame. It almost made her swoon. How could such a sweet thing could be so shameful to him?

“O- _kay…_ ” She says, tentatively. “Go on.” She adds.

“Well, I was impressed.” His voice picks up a little, less nervous now. “You’ve got a PhD, too. Why don’t you go by doctor and not agent?”

“Ah,” she sighs, uncomfortable. “Well, uh. I _did,_ for a short while.” _And when I did, some fucking sicko considered me an intellectual threat, then kidnapped me and all the women on my team, and then_

“What made you stop?” He asked softly, like a loud voice would break her.

“Well,” she clears her throat, “it backfired. Really badly.” She says, tense. She hates that she’s self-aware. She hates the way she sounds. She hates that she’s so damn good at sensing nervousness.

“Y/N. Hey.” He says, loud, stable.

She jumps, and looks at Reid. He darts his eyes to the steering wheel, and her gaze follows his. She was white-knuckling the leather like she was gonna snap the thing in half.

“Oh,” She sighs out, loosening and stretching her fingers out before loosely grabbing back onto the wheel. She takes the moment to breathe deeply. _100\. 93. 86. 79. 72._

She counts all the way back, until she gets to 2. Her therapist said, once she got to negative five, then she would be calm enough to talk.

“I’m sure you heard part of it.” She starts, gentle, solemn.

A beat passes.

“Yes.”

Another beat, while she profiles.

“ _Reid.”_

“Okay.” He adjusts himself. “I read the reports.”

She shakes her head, huffs a heavy breath from her nose.

“You could’ve just asked me, Reid.” She almost snaps at him.

“I am now.” His voice was so soft, it cracked. _Guilt._

She rolls her shoulders, her neck, takes another breath-- forcing herself to physically loosen. 

“You’re asking me about what title I use because the report briefly mentions that he targeted intelligent women, and then later mentions that me and my team were taken. You put it together, you wanted to find out for sure.” She explains, and finishes, “It’s fine, it’s okay. I don’t blame you.”

“Don’t apologize.” He mutters.

“What?”

“Don’t apologize.” He raises his voice for her. “I shouldn’t have read those reports. It had nothing to do with me, I- I didn’t need to know for sure, it’s violating.”

She notices how guilty he must feel-- he keeps trying to meet her gaze, but it only gets as far as the console between them, before he retreats and looks back down at his hands. “I take it back.” She retracts the apology, voice calm and (still) forgiving. It eases him, and he briefly looks in her direction, while still fumbling with his fingers. 

“You didn’t catch him.” He basically whispers.

“I know.” She gulps, and then looks to meet his eyes, finally. 

His brows flick up a little, a flash of sympathy coming across in his expression.

* * *

_ God, I’m so sorry. _

* * *

_It’s okay._

She can’t stop herself.

“I was the one who found out about the storage refrigerator.” She looks back to the road. “At the time, the three men in our unit were chasing a different lead, so it was me and the four women who drove to the address. We got there...” her voice waivers, but she pushes. “We breach. The fridge was empty, except for…” _Except for the perfectly preserved brain, sitting on the center of the floor. Looking too fucking much like a Halloween decoration, perfectly pink, with its folds glazed over with jelly-like blood._

“I know.”

“We stood for a second. Just shocked, all of us. We knew that was part of the M.O., we saw the photos. We knew that it meant that he was close. But we stood. Waiting. Waiting for one of us to step up and take charge, give some instructions.” 

She remembers what her therapist told her last week.

 _Once you can say those words, once you can say what happened, then you’ll gain_ control _over it all. Over your mind, your body. The anxiety._

“Then… the door closes. And he was there, standing in front of the door.”

Spencer’s hands start to ball up.

“Then, he--” something out of her control cuts her off, and she gulps to push it down. “He knocks us out. I don’t know how he gets to us all, we-- we have weapons drawn. And-- and when we wake up, we’re kneeling. Bound. And-a-and I was so _angry,_ so fucking angry at him, I just-- I started talking to him. Trying to piss him off, using the profile against him, you know. Went for his mom-- it was about his mom, you know, all of it.” Her voice is wavering.

Spencer’s neck twitches. He gulps.

“And…” Suddenly, she felt a weight lift from her chest, like something was escaping her lungs. She felt something enter her-- no, _return_ to her. Control. 

“Then, he shot them all, and left me. Picked up the brain. Opened his mouth.”

* * *

And bit into the temporal lobe, I know, that sick fucking monster.

She can’t finish the sentence. Her breath quickens, and quickens faster and faster, louder and louder.

“Y/N.”

“He, he--”

“You’re  _ safe _ right now. You’re safe. You’re driving, actually, so you need to focus on that.”

She nods quickly, wiping her cheek, breathing deeply, but a bit too quickly. She needs more. She needs more help. She needs to come back to Earth, back to the car. She’s still there, in the fridge.

“Y/N,  **_come back to me._ ** _ ” _

* * *

The sound of the rain came pouring in, behind Reid’s voice, beckoning her home. Suddenly, she sees the road in front of her, the rain that bounces off of it, and the lightning that strikes far, far away. The windshield wipers, the wheel, her knuckles. And the sounds of the shots echoing in the fridge were replaced with the wipers pumping back and forth, the dinging rain hitting the metal above her.

“Good… good. Hi.” He comforts.

“Hi,” she sniffs. Then, she laughs, and repeats herself. “Hi.”

* * *

“Yeah, hey.” I add, laughing, too. I know what she’s feeling. She feels real again. She feels good, now that she’s back in control.

“Pretty strong, right?” She says after a minute, clearly mocking herself as she gestures to her face, now raw from crying.

“Uh, yeah!” I exclaim. “You know, an author I admire once wrote, ‘If only our mental wounds left scars on our heads, then all would hold sympathy for each other, kissing each other’s traumatized temples.” I recite.

“Spencer…” She starts. “That’s beautiful.”

I try to give a sympathetic smile, one not too big.

_ Thank you. _

“It’s, um, Professor Sylvia Burgundy.”

* * *

_Spencer Reid smile number four. Gentle, twitchy. Thoughtful._

_Thank you._

“You know, thinking about the incident isn’t even the worst part.” She says, her words heavy but her voice hauntingly light. “The panic attacks, the flashbacks, I can control them. God knows I know how to comfort PTSD,” she says, recalling her time in hostage negotiation classes, “but… the tough part is the guilt. You know, PTSD-triggered flashbacks are the body’s response so the sufferer doesn’t have to comprehend the horrors that happened to them. Instead, they just relive what happened, and the mind doesn’t suspect anything amiss-- they feel pain, and assume that the pain that they felt is all they’re supposed to feel. Really, it’s just hiding the reality of what happened to them-- what changed about them after the trauma.” She finishes rattling. “That’s, uh… that’s the worst part. Knowing what changed about me.”

“Uncontrollable thoughts of guilt.” He states. Somehow, the emotionless-ness of it consoled her. “Survivor’s guilt.” He falsely identifies.

“No. I don’t feel guilty for being left alive.” She clarifies, strongly. “I feel guilty for not being able to save them.” She corrects him. Then, she gasps.

She hasn’t even made this breakthrough in therapy.

* * *

Spencer, maybe think twice before you identify someone mistaking a therapeutic explanation for what PTSD  _ actually _ is, and think at least another ten times before you push someone to realize what’s been plaguing them for two months, a week, and four days.

Therapy tactics, therapy tactics...  _ self-comparison. _

“I understand.” I start. She shows disbelief. “No, really. I do. I… I was born with this gift, and you’d think that I’d be able to predict these crimes, close the cases before they even begin, with how smart I am.” I begin. “But I can’t. And I’ll get a lead, and I’ll pursue it like hell, recall everything I’ve ever read that could possibly be relevant. And then Garcia calls with another name. And I think to myself, what memories did I forget to recall before another person lost their life?”

She seems less tense. Okay, okay, it’s working. Keep-- I clear my throat-- keep going.

“I can’t help but feel like… like the connections I offer for the cases are nothing more than supporting secondary evidence is to a research paper.”

Woah. 

Oh, she’s smart.

* * *

_Now we’ve both said something we needed to face about ourselves._

“You shouldn’t say that about yourself.”

He shakes his head, and starts to open his mouth, a defensive expression on his face already.

“No. Seriously. You _know_ that’s not true, right? You have to. You’d be a hypocrite, if you chose to study everything in the world, except for how important you are. Geniuses can’t be biased.” She tough-loves on him.

“But it really is how I feel.” He speaks more to himself than to her, like he’s realizing something. “I… I feel like this gift can be so much more than what it is. I-I-I _know_ it can, I just-- I just can’t make sense of the rest of it. I can see and _feel_ this part of my head that’s there,” he clenches his hands, “and I know it holds the rest of the knowledge I need, but I just can’t access it.” His fingers loosen as he admits this personal defeat.

_That’s the most self-aware I’ve ever seen someone with Autistic Spectrum Disorder be about their disorder._

“I know what you’re thinking.” He adds. She feels too guilty to say anything. “I haven’t gotten a diagnosis, but… yes. It has to be… that.” He breathes.

“See, look at you,” She laughs a little, wanting to feel anything better than what she was feeling right now, “reading my mind like that. You say you can’t connect with your emotional intuition, but you just read my mind.”

He laughs, but it’s not a happy one.

“You did it, too. On the Beckett case.” He looks over at her, and she’s zoning out from the road, biting her lip. “And you’re doing it now. You already know what I’m referring to. We both knew that the age of the victims were quintessential in solving that case.”

“That’s not mind-reading, Reid. We were thinking the same thing at the same time. If anything, that proves you’re my equal, but I _know_ you’re smarter-- why are you even comparing yourself in the first place? You’re _you,_ you _have_ to know that that’s bad for you.” She strokes the genius ego a little.

“One of the worst things you can do to ruin self-confidence,” he begrudgingly recites from somewhere in his memory.

She laughs, encouraging the smile she knew he could give.

“See? That’s my boy.”

He finally gives in, and gives that same, twitchy, thoughtful smile. _Smile number four._

“You know, it’s your fault.” He starts, his voice lighter.

“Oh! Is it now?” She responds, recognizing the humor.

“It is. The second Garcia said, ‘oh no, the geniuses, they’re doubling,’ I felt like one of the many unsubs that are plagued with guilt over impotence. I couldn’t intellectually perform anymore.”

“Oh, Jesus,” she swats the air next to him, which makes him flinch, laughing. “You _can_ , you’re just stopping yourself.” She shakes her head, like a mom disappointed with him. “You know, you need a little self-confidence boost.”

“Ha! _Do_ I,” He agrees.

“ _Yes,_ and I’m going to help you.” She declares.

* * *

Oh, God, please don’t.

“Y/N--”

“Nope. I’m going to help you.” She says, arrogant as never.

“ _ How? _ ” I squeak.

“By being a cheerleader.”

But you don’t like skirts.

“I--  _ please  _ explain.”

“I’m going to make sure that I’m there to correct you every single time you talk badly about yourself.”

I open my mouth, but I’m prepared to let her interrupt me again. Clearly, this is helping _her_ heal, too.

“Nope! It’s happening. It’s a deal.” She extends her hand to me.

Her hands are small, but strong. Thick fingers, topped with black, well-manicured nails. And her skin-- pale, almost like me. I can  _ see _ how soft it is.

And I take her hand, and confirm that it really is.

She shakes her hand, and confirms her contract.

“Okay, now. Tell me your insecurities.”

“O- _ kay _ , absolutely not! That is  _ not _ how we’re doing this.”

She bites down her smile, probably recognizing that I’m right.

“A day at a time? Okay?” I laugh out a little bit, trying to get her attention by meeting her eyes.

“Fine.” She hesitates to agree, keeping the stare with me until it was long enough to be dangerous. She looks back to the road. Her eyes are nearly an entire different color in this dim lighting. 

“That’s the only time I’ll let you be in charge of this little deal, though.”

Well, damn.

“Yes, ma’am.”

* * *

  
_Oh, God, say that again._


	5. AUTHOR NOTE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HI FRENS!! sorry to tease you with a false update but i just want to check in with yall, some of u guys have concerns and i want to address them before we get any further.

some of you guys said that you were either having trouble reading the font that i used for spencer's POV passages, and some said that you couldn't read them at all, so i decided to just use the regular, ao3-supported font for his POV and separate the POV transitions with these guys:

* * *

hopefully this is okay with you guys! i honestly hate it and i wish that the font thing worked, or ao3 offered different fonts to use, but whatever, what's most important is that anyone can read this without any issues. hopefully the adjustment is easy for those who didn't struggle with the different font beforehand!

another clarification between spencer and reader's POV is the narration style used. spencer's POV is in first person while reader's is third person subjective. 

another thing i want to clarify is what "~" means in this fic. it means a time skip, NOT a POV change.

below is examples of all three changes/ clarifications being used:

This narration style that I, Spencer, am using right now is called first person.

* * *

The narration style that Y/N is using right now is called third person subjective. She doesn't mind using it.

* * *

~

Some time has passed, but nothing has changed. I, Spencer, am still using first person, and

* * *

Y/N is still using third person subjective, as she was before.

if you have any questions pls let me know!!!


	6. Acquiescence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The unit follows their taught discretion and proficiency when faced with a strange disappearance case. Reid follows his taught compliancy when faced with your rules.  
> \--  
> the unit solves a case insanely fast, per usual 40-min episode where they land in the morning and the case closes while the sun’s still up somehow, and reid makes a proposition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m currently in the middle of s11 as I’m writing this and will most likely be in 12 or 13 by the time this is published but i just watched s11e11 and my breath has been taken away. that episode in particular was just so fucking incredible. it’s definitely making me rethink a lot of shit about spencer and hopefully the changes i make to him as a result of that will show smoothly in this fic. also i hope emily comes back again lol because i want this to take place post-maeve but have emily around. what i’m most nervous about is the prison shit. I have NO idea what happens except he goes to prison and then gets out (i think?????) and it has something to do with mexico (i think???) and i’m really hoping that criminal minds decided to do an open ending thing where they just imply that the unit keeps solving cases instead of an actual end bc i just can’t handle it. i usually spoil the endings of shows for myself before i start watching them because it’s really hard for me to not know where it’s going cuz i get so attached but this time i’m committed to this pain. Help.  
> UPDATE: i’m halfway through writing this chapter and derek just left the unit!!!!!!!!! Holy fuck hello what do i do!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! This fic is OFFICIALLY in ‘completely non-canon’ territory now  
> UPDATE: HOTCH TOO???? HELLO??????????????????????????????????? HUH  
> ok whatever FUCK IT bro this fic takes place in fuckin magic land where we got the s3-5 cast but they have the knowledge and experience up to season 12 cuz ive had it to about fuckin here with this shit. fuck mark gordon

The air gets tense when you’re expecting someone to say something. Waiting for the words you  _ know _ they’re going to say, it just makes you tense, twitchy. You almost want to say the words yourself, just so you can relieve yourself, so you can confirm that you know what is going to happen next.

“Spence,  _ please.” _

“Fine.” I sigh, partially in relief, and partially in defeat.

She immediately pulls over and turns on the hazards. I didn’t expect for her to be the type to use notification lights when there haven’t been any other cars for nearly an hour. Even though I know how traffic patterns move in rural areas like this, it’s still surprising to see road silence for so long, especially during the afternoon. It’s not statistically supported.

Once we switch seats and get situated, she thanks me for finally letting her take a break from driving. I start making the necessary adjustments to drive.

“Jesus.”

“What?”

“Your eidetic memory better recall exactly where those chair settings were before we get back, it took me weeks to perfect it. I’m half your height, I can’t reach the pedal from that far.”

“Will do.” I promise, making a few more adjustments, before twisting to reach into the backseat where my bag is.

“What’re you doing?”

“There’s just over 5 and a half hours left in the drive, which is just enough time to start and finish the audiobook version of Sylvia Burgundy’s biography.” I propose, coming back up front with a CD in hand. 

She has that look on her face, the one that the rest of the unit always has after I suggest something that’s clearly insufferable, or at least unrelatable. Then, her expression starts to change, like she realizes something.

“Sylvia Burgundy… that’s-- that’s the name you told me about earlier, the author. The quote, about mental scars, kissing temples.” 

“Yeah.” I turn to her. I must’ve made a face, because she looks down at my lips briefly before looking back up. Her smile grows. “How sweet. You remembered.”

“Wait-- you read 20 thousand words a minute, right?” She asks. “The pace of the audiobook is going to be too slow for you, it’ll drive you crazy.” She reasons. I can tell she’s not saying it just to get out of listening to the book.

“Ah, it’s no problem.” I wave it off, pulling onto the road. 

“If you say so.” She says, buckling up and stretching out her legs. She looks… cozy.

“I figured it’d be easier for you.” I add, gingerly.

A smile starts to part Y/N’s mouth, and it looks like she might say something, but the radio cuts her off as the audiobook starts.

* * *

~

There are a few recurring anomalies that everyone experiences, events that make them feel in a certain way. You identify them as they come, and once they pass, they’re just as easy to forget, until it happens again. Things like seeing the first fireflies of the season, or being in the city at night and seeing all the colorful, bright lights. Tonight, the anomaly that she and Reid experience together is that of returning home after a long, tranquil night on the road, and the shared knowledge that they did have a good time together, but now, want nothing but to curl up in their own beds.

It was a tragedy that they had to stop at the office regardless. Hotchner wanted to debrief with the whole unit, in person-- he called to tell Spencer and Y/N that Cruz was impressed with how quickly the unit closed the case. He wanted everyone to meet and talk about what they did differently this time so they can try and replicate it in the future. 

Once they get up to their floor, after groggily following each other in and out of the elevator, they find that the bullpen’s lights are off. She goes to push the door open, but Spencer holds his arm out in front of her, barring her from pushing through.

“Wait.” He lowers his arm and goes over to the wall, where he presses a button. “Now the lights won’t come back on from the motion sensor. Would’ve burned our eyes.”

“Oh. Nice.” She grunts, still woozy from road hypnosis.

“Looks like they’re already in the conference room… wait, is that… ?” His voice is just as rumbly, but she doesn’t have the energy to be as excited about it as she was this morning. Instead, she pays attention to what he’s saying-- she looks through the conference room blinds, and sees that Garcia is standing at the head of the round table, remote in hand. The rest of the team sat around the table, watching her talk. Through the slats, Y/N can see that there are some photos displayed on the projector screen.

“Fuck.” She hisses, setting her bag down on her desk. Spencer wordlessly follows suit.

“Guys, I really am  _ not _ down for this,  _ this _ late at night, so can we maybe hurry up on developing a way to stop these sickos before-- oh! Oh! Hi! Welcome back!” Garcia tweets as the two enter the room.

Spencer is yawning, so Y/N answers for the both of them. “Thank you.”

“Jeez.” Morgan says, reacting to how tired they must look. “How was the road trip? Y’all do any sight-seeing?” He quips.

“If you consider three billion square miles of corn fields to be record-breaking, then yes, we saw every little bit of that attraction.” She plays back unenthusiastically.

The team looks at Spencer.

“What?” He grunts.

“You’re not gonna tell us how many square miles of cornfields you two  _ actually  _ drove through?” Emily is shocked. She seems like a night owl-- it made sense that she’s the most awake right now (aside from Garcia, even with her complaints).

Reid rubs his eyes, with his whole face scrunched up superfluously.  _ Cute. _

“I mean…” his hand drops, and he looks off, thinking. “Depends on how far out from our car you want me to count into the calculations.”

“There he is.” Rossi points with a pencil. He looks even more wrinkly than normal.

“Alright, guys.” Hotch asserts calmly. The two take their seats and look to Garcia.

“This is a weird one, crime-fighters. Luckily, no blood and guts, and I really don’t want to have to say the word  _ ‘yet _ ,’ so let’s work extra-hard.”  _ Click.  _ A photo of a man appears. “This is George Whitman, who just went missing sometime last night. A week before,”  _ click, _ “Jennifer Whitman went missing, too.”

“A week ago?” Reid asks, his voice starting to wake. “Did George not submit a missing person’s report after 24 hours?”

“None.”

"Friends and family didn’t notice she was gone?” J.J. adds.

“They saved asking about that for us.”

“Hold on,” Y/N starts, “why are we taking this? I mean, I’m sure I speak for all of us when I say we’re ready to help, but, there’s no sure signs of a serial or even of a death.”

“Strange circumstances.” Hotch states.

“What circumstances, family targeting? Then why didn’t it happen all on the same night?”

“Garcia.” Hotch looks at her with the smallest raise of his brow, nudging her to explain.

“Yeah, um…”  _ Click. _

_ Oh, no. _

A photo of a young girl-- maybe 6-- appears on the screen.

“This is Mackenzie Whitman. Sweet little Mackenzie, alone, walked  _ all  _ the way to the police station from her house, which is a  _ 2-mile walk,  _ to ask the black-and-white at the desk, in her sweetest of voices, if he knew who stole her mommy and daddy.”

There is a visible wave of relief through the team as they realize that she hasn’t been harmed.

“Reid, spit it out.” Rossi says, and Y/N looks at him to find him making one of his faces-- mouth open, staring at nothing, like his thoughts were appearing in front of him and he was squinting to read them.

“Why does a seven year old know how to get to the police station by memory?” He asks himself out loud.

“Not sure, but it can’t be good. Wheels up in 20.” Hotch stands.

~

“Hi, Mackenzie.” J.J. bends down a little when speaking to the girl. “My name is J.J. This is Y/N. We’re both in the FBI. How are you?”

Mackenzie hasn’t been crying, but she isn’t oblivious to the fact that something is wrong.

“I’m okay…” She says, not meeting eyes with J.J. as she talks. “I miss my momndad.”

“I know.” J.J. sympathizes before sitting down. Y/N joins her. “Are you hungry or thirsty? You have breakfast yet?”

The little girl nods her head.

“Mackenzie, before we ask for your help, do you have any questions you want to ask us, or anything you want to tell us?” Y/N asks.

“I wanna know where my mom and dad are.” She answers quickly.

“I’m…” she sighs, “I’m sorry, honey, but we don’t know yet. But that’s why you’re here-- you might be able to help us find them, okay?”

“Okay.” She nods.

“We’re going to ask you some questions, and we want you to think real hard about it. The best way to help us  _ isn’t  _ to answer as fast as you can, but, for you to tell the truth, and think  _ real  _ hard, and tell us what you remember. Okay?”

She nods.

“Okay, awesome. Thank you so much.” Y/N smiles. “My first question for you might be a little hard, but I’m here to help you if you need it. What did your dad seem like after your mom went away? Was he happy, sad? Scared?”

She nods as Y/N says the word ‘scared.’

“Okay, you say that your dad was  _ scared  _ after your mom went away. Did he seem  _ confused  _ at all, like he didn’t know where he was? Or maybe he acted like he was in a bad dream?”

“Mm… the first one.”

“Okay. That’s good, good job. J.J.?”

“Do you remember anything being  _ different _ than normal? Maybe your mom seemed sad, or maybe happier, right before she went away. Maybe she acted like she was hurt? Same with your dad.”

She makes a sort-of thinking face while she looks at her hands.

“My mom, before she got stolen, asked me lots of things.”

“Do you remember what those questions were?”

“One time she asked if I wanted a brother or a sister.”

Y/N slowly turned her head to J.J., checking to see if she caught that, too.

“Okay, that’s good, that helps us. Do you remember any other ones?”

“No…” she looks down.

J.J. peers her head down to try to get into her line of sight. She toughens up a little in tone.

“Are you  _ sure _ ? Remember, this will help us find your mom and dad.”

“My momndad were really happy before mommy was stolen. But he kept... touching her belly.”

Y/N adjusts the way she’s sitting. It’s only been a few minutes, but she thinks they’ve got more than enough from Mackenzie.  _ It’s time to go. _

“Okay, good job, Mackenzie. That really, really helps us. We’re going to go and try to find them now, okay? Do you know who is looking after you?”

“My uncle is supposed to be here.”

“Okay, we’re going to see if he’s almost here, okay?”

She nods, and the two women exit.

* * *

The small amount of information we have on this case is absurd. I’m glad we’re here, but I can’t do a damn thing with what we have.

“Reid, call Garcia.” J.J.’s voice comes from behind me, joined by the clicking of two pairs of heels. “Mackenzie just gave us reason to believe that Jennifer found out she was pregnant right before she disappeared.”

Without hesitation, I dial Garcia.

“Baby genius!” She squeals.

“Can-- hi. Can you check the credit card records of both Mackenzie’s parents? Look for any drug store charges or obstetricians/ gynaecologist charges.”

“I’m going to pretend that I’m looking for things that say that she  _ isn’t _ missing and pregnant.” A beat passes as she types. “Oh, boy. Yeah, I’ve got receipts from all three. She saw the obgyn a week ago, and the drug store charges started from there. I’ve even got an online vitamin store purchase on dad’s card.”

“Mackenzie said that her mom and dad were happier than normal. George couldn’t have been upset by the news, could he?” J.J. posed.

“No, couldn’t have.” Garcia adds. “The vitamin store purchase was  _ big--  _ almost $200.”

“They were overjoyed.” I think aloud. “So maybe we  _ are _ looking at family targeting.”

“I’ll start looking at family abduction cases within the area.” Garcia starts typing.

“Look at people who’ve targeted pregnant women, too, please.” Y/N adds in.

“I will… begrudgingly do so.”  _ Click. _

_ Now  _ we’re moving.

~

I’m halfway through re-reading  _ The Final Problem _ when Y/N comes in with lunch.

“You know the line where Sherlock says he doesn’t need to eat?” She greets, handing me a bag. I can smell something salty inside.

“‘The faculties become refined when you starve them. What your digestion gains in the way of blood supply is so much lost to the brain. I am a brain. The rest of me is a mere appendix. Therefore, it is the brain I must consider.’” I recall aloud.

“Yeah, I think that’s the line.” She mutters, smiling at her joke. “Are you the same way? Could you just... stop eating?”

“No.” I say, simply. “Sherlock would have to train himself to recognize anything case-related as survival, as life and death, for his brain to work faster when his body was starved.” I pause a second, as her words finally resonate. She was comparing me to Sherlock when she asked me that. “Sherlock didn’t necessarily have an eidetic memory. At least, not a perfect one. He trained himself to store all of that knowledge away. I mean, those books are fiction, so, there’s going to be some things that just aren’t correct, even though Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was so particular. He’s got to characterize Sherlock somehow.”

She nods, her brows raised just a bit. She’s clearly bummed that I didn’t play into her joke at all. She just hasn’t seen enough of how often I deal with other ones just like hers. 

I watch her unwrap her food, clearly not amused.

“I  _ can _ stop sleeping, though, if I want to.” I murmur.

She snorts. I bite back a smile, trying to keep comically serious.

The phone rings, and she leans forward, putting it on speaker.

“Hey, who’s with you right now?” Garcia asks. Her voice is heavy, like she’s got news.

“Me and Spence.”

“I’m patching in the rest of the team.”  _ Beep, beep, beep. _ Tech will take us over someday. “Alright, everyone’s in now. I’ve got news-- Jennifer Whitman’s body has been found.”

I look over to Y/N, only to meet her similarly intense gaze.

* * *

~

Hotch ordered Y/N and Morgan to the M.E.’s, right after Garcia hit them with the news. The examiner was already waiting at the door when the two arrived, and he guided them to the slab, where the hauntingly familiar sight of a woman’s body covered in a white sheet lay in front of them.

“She was extremely healthy. She was pumped full of vitamins, good muscle tone. The only thing wrong was what happened to the baby.”

They both look to the M.E., questions on their face.

“Oh. They didn’t tell you on the phone. Okay.” He clears his throat. “Well, she miscarried. From what I found, it happened  _ right  _ before her death. She’s been dead for just over a week.”

“Were you able to determine if the miscarriage killed her somehow?” Morgan asks.

“Yes, and it didn’t. It was the other way around, actually. Shortly after the miscarriage, she died from…” he pulls back the sheet to reveal her head. She was hit once, hard, on the temple. “That. Weapon used was a  _ fist _ . This guy was  _ mad. _ ”

She doesn’t like how casual M.E.’s are when they’re working.

Morgan, still looking at the cleaned, greyed wound on her head, zones out. She can see the cogs turning in his head.

“You seein’ what I’m seein’?” Morgan asks.

“He’d do  _ anything _ for another child.” Y/N confirms, muttering those words with disgust.

* * *

~

Police station is 2.1 miles from the Whitman house. Body dump site is .4 miles from the house, and 2.5 from the station. Center of the triangulated area is a strip mall parking lot. Not relevant.

“Reid.”

“Yeah?” I turn, marker in hand, from the board.

“We just got back from the M.E.’s, Morgan’s heading off to tell the rest.” Y/N rests against the table. “Jennifer had a miscarriage  _ directly _ before her death. The miscarriage didn't cause her death-- it was the other way around. She was hit in the head, once, hard enough to fracture bone that pierced the brain. It’s gotta be George retaliating.”

“I’ll call Garcia.”

Once she picks up, I almost ignore her opening statement, but this time it catches me off-guard.

“My tragically gorgeous little brother. What can I do for you?”

“Can y-- uh.”  _ Tragically? _ That’s definitely the most blue joke she’s ever made. “H-hi, Garcia. Can you look into George’s past?”

“Sure, lil’ bro.” Her voice is dripping with a smile.

I grimace. Y/N laughs.

“Oh, no…” Garcia starts. 

We don’t have time for her to express her sadness, so I cut it off before it continues.

“What is it, Garcia?”

“He was a foster kid.”  _ Type, type, type. _ “He was taken by CPS because mom neglected him. He was passed around houses until he turned 18. All his foster parents kept him for around two months before requesting his removal.”

“What were the reasons for the requests?”

“ _ Uno momento _ … o- _ kay, _ every… single… one is for refusal to bond. There’s a note after each one that says ‘maternal’, so I’m assuming that means he hated every mom he was placed with.”

“That paints more of the story, but we need to know further back.” Y/N says to herself, thinking aloud. “Do you have any more details on the neglect from the biological mother?”

“Mm.” She whines. “That kind of thing is usually confidential, but I’ll try to un-confidential it. I’ll hit you back.”  _ Click. _

“That’s gonna take some time, some motions have passed through CPS recently that will make that information difficult to access, if it even ex _ ists _ anymore.” I inform her.

“Well, good. I need to eat.” She grabs her food from earlier. “Hotch interrupted my lunch.”

* * *

~

After her break, she spent nearly four hours going in and out of the interview room, talking to Mackenzie’s uncle. Once he finally did arrive-- nearly an hour later, since he came from Santa Fe-- he demanded that he see every second of the interview with his niece. Of course, he had the right to ask for that, but the unit was suspicious of the lawyer-like speed he employed to ask them what happened while he wasn’t there to counsel. It took a little bit, but she eventually came to the conclusion that he wasn’t a person of interest-- he just wanted to protect his missing brother’s daughter.

Things are too quiet now, though. It’s 7 P.M. and everyone in the unit has exhausted every lead they can think of, and Spencer has it all neatly pinned on their board, with all kinds of notes written between each photo. The unit sits at the table with the door shut and blinds drawn. From the outside, the officers might think that they’re deep in debate about the case, but in reality, they’re silent, clueless. Usually these cases start and end in less than two days because the leads just pour in once they show up, but it’s been radio silence for hours.

Then, Garcia calls.

Y/N just barely beats Reid to answering the phone and putting it on speaker.

“I am  _ begging _ you for something good.”

“Woah. I’m used to being the one who opens up a call with some sort of whining desperation. You guys really must be grasping at straws over there.” Garcia responds while Y/N mouths ‘whining desperation?’  _ Did I really sound like that? _

Reid nods in agreement, jutting his bottom lip out, as if to say Garcia was being reasonable. 

“Uh, yeah-- just… tell us you have something we can work with.” Y/N says, while she gives Reid a stern look, joking back. He mockingly raises his hands in defense.

“Oh, I’ve got  _ more _ than that. It took forever, but I finally got the details on George’s mom. She had a miscarriage when John was 8, and it com _ pletely _ broke her. She kept insisting that her husband continue to remodel the nursery, and she spent a ton of money on baby supplies. Then, little George got strep throat, but she ignored it. She started sleeping in the nursery next to the crib and doing things like waking up in the middle of the night while claiming that ‘the baby woke her,’ and bouncing a bundled blanket in her arm to calm herself down.”

“She was delusional.” Morgan thinks out loud. Reid looks down at his hands, but it wasn’t in thought. There was… sadness there.

“She lost the baby, couldn’t deal with it, so she pretended the baby was still there.” J.J. adds.

“And George was 8 at the time, that’s an extremely critical age for the development of the personality, trauma during that period of life almost always leads to some sort of disruptive disorder, or worse.” Reid snaps out of whatever was affecting him when the facts started coming out of his mouth. He stands, looking back at the board, searching for something.

“So we’re saying that Jennifer also had this breakdown, and it triggered George to kill her?” Rossi asks, confusion in his tone.

“No… I think that when he saw his wife miscarry, it reminded him of his mom, and it scared him enough to kill her. He was thinking that if his mom left him after losing a baby, his wife would do the same. When trauma resurfaces, you lose control of your body. That’s when he killed her.” Emily corrects him.

“How do we know it was fear that drove him?” J.J. follows up.

“Mackenzie did say that her dad was acting confused and nervous after her mom disappeared. I think he was dissociated when he killed her, and when he snapped out of it, he was confused.” Hotch offers solemnly.

“So what happened to George, then? Would he have killed himself?” Morgan asks.

“No, he probably would’ve seen his daughter in the same way that he saw the lost babies. He wants her, loves her.” Emily corrects again, voice deep and confident.

“Then what?”

“Guys, think, what’s his endgame? What does he want?” Reid encourages the team.

“His biological mother.” Y/N offers gravely from her chair.

The team turns to her.

“That makes sense.” Rossi says, starting to see what she was seeing.

“Garcia, you still there?” Reid asks aloud.

“Yes, unfortunately, I heard all of the sad things you guys just said.”

“Where is his biological mother?”

“Well, luckily for you, I was able to figure out her identity while I was figuring out the reason for the relocation. Her name is Janet, she’s still alive and kicking, and she lives…”  _ Beep, beep, beep.  _ “Oh, my God. She lives 20 minutes away-- Las Vegas, New Mexico. She’s on life support after a car crash paralyzed her.”

Y/N is already on her feet.

“He waited a week to sort through the trauma, get down to the root. He thinks that he needs to kill his real mother to feel in control of his life. We need to go, now.”

“Let’s move, everyone.” Hotch agrees.

~

“What’s the plan, Hotch?” Emily ask-yells as they rush into the E.R. entrance.

“I want Reid, Morgan, and Y/N to go to the front desk, figure out which room she is. The rest of us, I want us splitting up and taking each staircase to the life support wing.”

“Got it!”

“Copy!”

Once they get inside, badges a-flashing, everyone makes their way to their positions. Their hands are twitching near their holsters as the group of three prepare at the door. Reid peers in.

“He’s in there.” He looks over his shoulder at Y/N, and then back at Morgan. He nods, and Morgan reaches for the handle, pushing the door open for Reid, who charges in. “FBI!”

“My  _ thumb _ is  _ on _ the switch!” George yells from inside, facing the machine that beeps next to a completely docile, sleeping woman.

“Step  _ away _ from the machine, George!”

“Look at her, for fuck’s sake!” He growls. “She’s already fuckin’ dead, just let me have this!”

Morgan pushes forward, his legs moving slowly as he glides through the room, weapon pointed.

“George, lookatme.” He shows George his hands before slowly tucking his gun away. “We know about your mom.” A pause, as he undoubtedly studies the unsub’s body language. “We know about… your sibling.”

“I’m… I’m an only child.” He says, a little confused. His neck twitches.

Morgan is at the foot of her bed now, hands still up.

“No. No, you’re not. You just never got to meet your sibling.”

She can’t help it, she has to join in.

“George, my name is Y/N. You… you thought it was a girl, didn’t you? You knew you were going to have a little sister?”

He stays quiet.

“George…” she inches forward, tucking her gun away too. Reid stays focused behind them, his revolver steadily pointed at George’s chest. “Your little sister would feel guilty if she knew it was her fault that her mom died.”

His arm rests on the machine now, his hand still hovering over the button. He’s breathing a little heavier, looking around more erratically-- at everything but his mom.

“Look at her, George.” She can feel her team’s eyes dart to her, but she knows if she’s careful, it’ll work. “She’s helpless. You felt that terrible, _terrible_ grief when you lost your child…” she pauses, giving him a second to respond to the mention of the trigger. He sucks a breath in, but not much else changes about his erratic behavior. _This is going to work._ “She was just _softer_ than you. She couldn’t take it… when she lost your sister, it _broke_ her.”

“Don’t let the awful things you’re feeling  _ prevent _ you from helping her find peace.” Morgan offers.

“And maybe…” Y/N reaches for George’s arm. Her hand settles on his shoulder. “Maybe you’ll find your peace, too.”

_ Three, two, one. _

George, after a long look at his mother, starts to weep, and his arm drops from the machine. She quickly, but gently, takes George’s other arm and cuffs him while Reid rushes behind them to check on the machine’s operational status. Morgan leaves the room and mutters something to the rest of the team, which had made it to the corridor and were standing by.

Once she pushes George along to another agent for transportation, she turns back to George’s mother’s room. Reid is standing at the foot of her bed, absently looking at the scene in front of him.

“Reid?” She asks, softly.

“Yeah!” He nearly yelps, turning to face her. His hands are still in his pockets.

“You alright?”

“Yes! All good. Just… a little zoned out from all the--  _ driving _ , still.” He nods, licks his lips.  _ He’s convincing himself of his lie. _

She blinks at him.

With the utmost gall, he blinks back.

“Reid, stop it.” She scorns. She closes the distance between the two of them, and lowers her voice a little, before she continues. “Our  _ deal  _ can’t work unless you’re  _ honest _ with me.” She locks eyes with him. His eyes struggle to match hers. “Those are the terms of the contract.” She shakes her head, crossing her arms. Standing her ground.

“I…” He gulps, pressing his lips into a line.  _ Defeated. _ “ _ Not.  _ Here. Just-- m-meet m-me at my place tonight, we’ll talk there. I… need to stay focused.” He says, his last words coming out a little easier than the rest.  _ He’s still lying-- he wants more time to prepare for talking about whatever’s bothering him. _

She sighs.

“Okay.” She raises her brow, pointedly saying, “Fine,” to show that she’s simply  _ allowing _ these conditions.

Reid does everything he can to signal a ‘thank you,’ short of actually saying it. He heads for the corridor, relief in his posture. Y/N feels the need to change that.

“At  _ seven. _ ” She asserts. He stops, looks back at her. And he nods. All of the sway she had over him in that moment must have spooked him, because he made a joke.

“Yes, ma’am.” He smirks.

* * *

She bites her cheek, trying not to smile. She's blushing, too. 

So she  _ does _ like that.


	7. Maggot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Y/N makes good on her and Spencer’s deal for the first time.  
> \--  
> 3.1k words of trauma bonding and tension

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have endured both heaven and hell as I completed watching season 11 and 12 of this God forsaken television show. I am so insanely full of thoughts and I just don’t know where to start. I think the only thing I can definitively say is that I’m glad I finished these seasons before completing this chapter. Sorry for the wait-- hopefully this chapter makes up for it.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING  
> there is a *brief* mention of sexual assault. it refers to when reid was drugged in mexico by Lindsey Vaughn who was pretending to be Maeve in order to pull off Cat's kinda gross and totally illegal impregnation plan.

The apartment smelled exactly like she expected it to-- a classic and cliche combination of book-smell and java beans. Reid’s apartment was muted, both in lighting and palette; she thought, he must get headaches going from this den of a home to the bright lighting of the Bureau. His walls were dark green, which was a bold choice that she made a mental note to ask about later. She knew he’d go off talking about how certain colors promote emotional responses, and how the earthy color would change the room’s tone because of light reflection.

She was surprised at how well everything in his home coalesced. He had a lot of cozy things; blankets and pillows were piled up on a deep, low-to-the-ground couch, and across from it, a naturalistic table sat covered in books. Really, everything was covered in books. It was like he was in the middle of unpacking, but his bookshelves were full, too. The shelves must have been custom-made because they perfectly fit the dimensions of the walls. Every surface that wasn’t already burdened by literature held other things, the kinds of things that fit the bookish aesthetic she bullied him about a few days ago. Leather goods, calligraphy materials, maps and globes. He even had a typewriter-- for a second, she thought,  _ okay, that’s a little  _ too  _ cliche, _ but she quickly saw that it was just for decoration when she noticed the dust that had settled on the keys.

When he opened the door after a punctual knock came at 7 P.M., he gestured her inside, and then retreated to his  _ large  _ writing desk in the corner. Almost like he had forgotten that he was the one who invited her over, he subconsciously guarded the most valuable thing to him, as if he needed to. Clearly he was nervous, or at least protective of his space. She employed her behavioral analyst skills; she kept a comfortable posture while showing a curious expression, hoping that it would make him subconsciously feel that she wasn’t intruding but also wasn’t weirded-out by his place. Apparently, it works, because he offers her a drink.

“Coffee?” He asks.

“Sure.” She chimes, looking over at Spencer. He holds his hands in front of him, clasped together, with his arms making a v-shape. He is subconsciously guarding his most sensitive areas-- he still feels a little bit on-edge. “Curious to see how you make it.” She adds lightheartedly, wanting to ease him fully. She continues to look around as she walks deeper into his home while Spencer crosses over to the kitchenette.

“However you like, I suppose.” He voices, bashfully.

She gets that cheek-tiring blush, and she’s glad that he’s across the room, facing away from her, as she tries to repress it. It’s easy for her to do so-- she makes her way over to the desk now that he’s gone, and looks around. It doesn’t have any dust on its surface, and things like writing utensils and sticky note pads are sitting out. She decides that he uses this space most frequently than anywhere else-- if he didn’t, he’d have put away the office supplies to reduce clutter, but keeping them out is more productive to him.

In the center of the desk is a thick, but tightly-bound stack of paper. The papers are tri-folded, and have writing covering both sides in a dark ink that’d only come from a high-quality pen. A dark blue string ties the stack together. The stack was so  _ perfectly _ aligned with the rest of the materials, and was obtruding the workspace, sitting right in the middle of it. Something is special about these letters.

She read all of the  _ Sherlock Holmes _ short stories, and in her favorite one,  _ A Scandal in Bohemia, _ John Watson was clever enough to shout ‘fire!’ to get a suspect to protectively look in the direction of what she was hiding.

“Hey, Spence,” she calls softly from his desk.

He picks his head up, probably startled to hear her voice coming from over there. His eyes dart to his desk, just for a moment.

“Yeah?”

_ Elementary, my dear Watson. _ She turns and verifies that he did, in fact, look down at the letters. She looks at him as she picks them up, watching him dart his tongue out to wet his lips.

“Are these why I’m here?” She holds up the bundle.

“Yeah.” He hesitantly whispers.

She lowers her arm and walks over to the couch. It was deep enough for her to sit cross-legged, so she did, as she waited for Spencer to finish their coffee.

His towering frame bends down and he pulls a coffee tray towards the edge of the table. He hands her a mug, and starts to dress his own coffee. She decides to drink it black, wanting to taste what his brew of choice was without any contaminates.

She watches as he sits down, all legs, pulling his knees up to his chest. His feet catch her attention-- one with a solid pea-green sock, the other, a pink one, with small, light blue hearts in an argyle-like pattern.

The two of them sit across from each other on his couch that is acting as a spectrum, where one side signifies willingness to speak, and the other side is Spencer. Between them is the stack of letters-- the simple, neutral truth that brings them together.

“You know, you have to start.” She lectures.

“I know,” he concedes. His facial hair is more noticeable, somehow, in the darker lighting. “I’m… just…  _ disinclined. _ ”

She flicks her brow up, acknowledging his concern while also displaying her indifference towards it. She probably wouldn’t ever admit it to herself, but she enjoyed being able to get under his skin like this. It validated her that someone trusted her enough to open up to her, even if it took a little bit of contrivance.

* * *

She’s the mom-friend type; that tough-love stature of hers proves it. Her knowingly smug expression leads me to believe that she knows she’s a good one, too.

Then, I look down at the incredibly private letters that she’s taken into her hands, the ones that hold such an important storyline of my life, and decide that she definitely has the right to believe that.

“My…” I begin, but my voice gives out. I clear my throat, and try not to meet her expectant eyes. “My mother is a paranoid schizophrenic. It’s turning into Alzheimer’s with old age, and it’s developing quickly. She’s in an assisted care facility.” I can hear the shame in my voice as I say that. My mother should still be living with me.

“Um, these… these letters,” I gesture to her hands, which are fingering the string that bundles the letters together, “are the only correspondence that my mother and I had for about two years. We wrote to each other every day. I would tell her about our cases, who the unsubs were and how we were able to find them. She’d write back, telling me what she thought.” I feel myself start to smile. “She’d insult the unsubs, calling them names, almost like they were schoolyard bullies.”

“Why didn’t you go and visit her?” She asks. I feel my smile weaken. She’s pushing me to the point, not letting me remember the good parts. 

She has the right to. I agreed to this.

“I think you know.”

“Yeah, but that’s not the point.” She rightfully scolds.

Yeah… the point is to get me to say it.

“Because…” I push myself, “because I was afraid to see if her condition got any worse since I left home.” I admit. “I watched her illness drive my father away, you know? And it’d only just started back then. I knew that she was only going to get sicker… so I was scared to see what else… what-- what other…”

“What other damage she caused?”

“ _ For lack of a better term,” _ I whisper. “And… I’m  _ me.  _ I’m supposed to be smart enough to fix everything, to come up with a cure. Instead, I… left her. Left her alone to suffer.” God, I hate how whiny my voice can get.

“You can’t blame yourself.”

“I’ve heard that before.” I dismiss her quickly.

“Then why didn’t you listen?” She snaps back even faster.

* * *

He makes that defeated face again-- presses his lips into a line, swallows, avoids eye contact. He’s so predictable, it’s precious.

* * *

“One day…” I decide to move on, and, aside from a little brow flick, she seems like she’ll let me. “A case came in, one of those intelligent unsubs, the kind that play mind games with you. His name was Randall Garner. He was the sole survivor of a house fire that killed his family, and it drove him insane. He had to be institutionalized. It happened that he was put into the same facility as my mother.” I haven’t talked about this since the case itself. She can probably tell. 

“They… befriended each other. He read our letters. And she told him this… fairytale, and it became a part of his delusion, his motive. But that part doesn’t really matter, he’s dead now. The case… that case was the reason I went to see her for the first time in two years.”

“How’d she take it?” She sets the letters down between us, and rests her arm along the back of the couch. Her nails are painted a tasteful black.

“Good, actually.” I realize just how down I sounded before, because my voice lightens up when I say that. “She seemed like her usual self. It… didn’t last long, though, if I remember correctly. We got the lead we came for and had to leave quickly.” I frown. “That case was… hard. For all of us, really. It ended up being the start of the end for one of our profilers, a woman named Elle. I’m grateful for that case, though, because it showed me there was nothing to fear. I had no reason to be scared to go and visit her.”

“So did you?” She absently runs her fingertips on the seam of the couch cushion, keeping gentle eye contact with me.

“Sure. Not-- not often, b-because of work, but… yeah.”

I stop, expecting her to have something to say about my obvious lie. She doesn’t bother, so I continue.

“She… started to get sicker. Started doing things that weren’t aligning with paranoid schizophrenia. I went to visit her, and… it was bad. It was dementia, I knew it right away.”

She watches me intently as I set my untouched coffee down. I hug my knees closer to me, buckling my fingers together. This is the part where things get… intense.

“Is that why you were looking at George Whitman’s mom like that?” She asks softly, like she didn’t want to cross a line. I had almost forgotten-- that’s why she was here. The case today. I stopped George from killing his mother, and… 

“She reminded me of my own mother.” Sick. Helpless, bedridden. “Some days she’d be her normal self. So normal, I was convinced that she was miraculously getting better.” I look up at her. “I don’t believe in miracles.” 

“Other days, most days, she looked the way that George Whitman’s mom did today. I tried to-- t-to get my mom into some clinical studies, you know, with experimental medicines meant to reverse the effects, but she ended up being cut from the most promising one for financial reasons.”

She looks at me, expectant.

“You know the next part.”

“I do.” She nods, not averse to admitting it.  _ But that’s not the point. _

I huff.

“I… heard about the doctor in Mexico, I started meeting with her. She’d give me the medicine, I’d drive home.” I start. “To give her the medicine, my mom would have to live with me, because it… well, you know.” Wasn’t prescribed. Wasn’t legitimate. “And… I hired a caretaker to help while I had to be away for work. She was great. So, _so_ great. Patient.” 

I had to stop. I had to take a moment to breathe, to grieve for Cassie. For the part of myself I lost during all of this.

Y/N’s hand gently lays over mine and squeezes. Her soft, cool skin starts to bring me down. I chase that feeling; I take her hands and squeeze back.

“You… you know, Cassie, the caretaker, she was killed. Killed by… the girlfriend of an unsub that I put away.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“ _ I know,”  _ I whisper. I run my fingertips over the groove of her nails, letting them gently push crescents into my skin. “It’s just hard.”

Don’t cry.

“I’ve got you.”

Stupid, stupid tears. Stupid. Stupid. Weak.

“ **_Come back to me, Spence_ ** **.** ”

* * *

She hopes that he remembers those words. She hopes that he recalls how he said them to her, and how they worked so well to stop her panicking that day on the road trip. She remembers coming back to Earth, and turning to see Spence in the passenger seat, concerned. Concerned  _ for her. _ And she remembers being so grateful that the next thing she saw was his smile, right before he welcomed her back with that precious, soft, ‘Hi.’ 

When he looks up at her now, with those big, teary eyes, she knows that he remembers, too. 

“Hi.” She says.

He fights another tear.

“Hi,” He sniffs.

* * *

“Go on.” She nudges me, her thumb pressing into my hand a little deeper. I let myself smile back at her, before doing as she told me.

“Next, uh-- well, all those things happened. The drugging. The… “ 

Sexual assault. That’s what it was, Spencer. Go on, say it. You need to tell someone. You need to talk about it. 

“The framing me for the doctor’s murder.” I can’t admit it. I just can’t. Not to her. “The chase. And then the arrest.”

She massages the center of my palm.  _ Come on, you can do this. _

“One day, my mom came to visit me in prison. I  _ knew _ something was wrong. I knew, when I got arrested, that I wouldn’t let her come see me in prison. I told Cassie not to let her come. She couldn’t see me like that because it’d just-- it’d mess too much with her head. But there she was.”

I look at our hands together. I keep my focus on them. 

“When our time was over, the caretaker that came to pick her up wasn’t Cassie. I couldn’t remember who it actually was, but I recognized her. Then, I heard her voice. She was an unsub’s daughter, Lindsey Vaughn, from a case that was years old. And seeing her face, i-it brought the memory back to the surface. The memory that she was  _ there _ ,  _ she  _ was the one with the knife.  _ She  _ was the doctor’s killer.” I fight the reflex to tighten my hand, a reflex I know now comes from trauma from that night, when I went to grab the knife from Lindsey but failed and cut my hand. .

I’ve healed. I  _ don’t  _ need to ball up my hand anymore. And I can’t-- not while her hands are in mine. 

“The B.A.U. finally got me out, but we had a new problem. My mother was missing and Cassie was dead. By then, the unit figured out that Lindsey and another previous unsub that I put away, a woman named Cat, were really the ones responsible. We thought it was Scratch all that time. When I went to see Cat in prison, she… made me play this game. That was her thing with me, playing games.” I feel my chest shrink. “If I lost, Lindsey would kill my mother.” My lungs tighten. “But I didn’t lose.” My throat clenches.

“Spence.”

“Yes?”

“You don’t have to keep going. You’ve said what you needed to, okay?” She takes one hand away from our bundle of hands, and moves it to my leg, rubbing a little circle on my knee. 

I’ve felt that before. I remember. It used to have a calming effect on me. Yeah...

My mom used to do it.

* * *

She doesn’t stop him when he suddenly leans forward, his forehead resting on her shoulder as he quietly sobs. His body starts to tremble, and she fully unclasps their hands, ready to hold him. Before she can even settle her hands on his back, he indulges himself in the touch he needs-- he buries his face in her shoulder, pressing her hair against her neck, and falls into her. She watches as her arms move around him, pulling him in tighter.

She stays silent as he weeps. She makes her eyes busy, busy with  _ anything  _ except the way his shoulders fall in towards his chest as he curls into her. She looks at the decorative wallpaper that highlights the kitchen wall,  _ not  _ at his long fingers, and  _ not  _ at the sides of his hands that rest on her stomach now, occasionally twitching as he lets it all out.

* * *

Once I can convince myself to stop crying, I focus on stabilizing my breath, grounding my body. I feel her around me-- her chest slowly rising and falling against mine, her tiny hands on my back and side, her breath on my neck.

This person that comforts me so well couldn’t possibly be comfortable with this. I laid against her without warning, without consent. I cried on her. How embarrassing.

I sit back up, and I keep my eyes to my hands.

“It’s okay, Reid.”

God,  _ how does she make her voice sound so devoted? _

She compels me to look at her, and I’m glad she does, because she wordlessly tells me that she really is okay. That she didn’t mind it. That she’s here for me. I don’t notice when she slips her hand into mine again.

* * *

“Okay.” He nods.

“You know, for the first therapy session, this was kinda hard.” She jokes. It works-- he’s able to laugh, and she laughs, too, but she pays more attention to how he doesn’t let go of her hand. When he stills from his laughter, she notices that his look of guilt is long gone. Now, it’s a fifth Reid Smile that she can’t identify. One that she’s  _ never _ seen on Reid’s face before. One that she guessed that not many others  _ have _ .

A moment passes.

“I guess you’re just really good at it.”

She watches his smile move. The corners turn up, and then he opens his lips just a little, only to lick them as he closes them.

“I guess so.” She supposes.

* * *

Of  _ course _ she’s going to put me in charge of what happens next.

“Thank you, Y/N.”

She waits a second longer than I can handle, before her hand starts to slide up my arm as she leans forward.

Don’t move, don’t move, don’t move.

Her touch is so light.

Her hand stops. It settles in the crook of my elbow. 

She keeps that impossible stare with me, before her eyes fall to my arm. I look down, wanting to see what she sees. And suddenly, I remember-- 

Sitting in my bedroom, my sleeve rolled up, a strip of latex tied around my bicep. A small glass bottle, labeled ‘HYDROMORPHONE’ sitting on my bed next to me. And my shaking hand holding a needle against my vein. More importantly, I remember the first time I was able to show my face at a meeting. I remember the way that hearing a dozen scattered monotone voices saying ‘Hi, Spencer,’ felt a lot less impersonal than I thought it would. I remember the feeling of a one-week coin being placed in my hand, and then, milestone after milestone, I remember the feeling of my wallet getting heavier as I put each new coin in it. 

I guess Y/N returned the favor.

She read my file, too.

“You’re stronger than you think, Reid.” Her thumb passes over a vein-- one that I  _ fought  _ to be trackmark-less.

I look up at her, and she’s closer than before. I can see that the freckle under her eye isn’t a perfect circle. I can see the healed remains of a piercing hole on her left nostril, long gone with time and adulthood. I can see a part of her lip that she must have bitten too hard, because it’s redder than the rest, shinier. 

And I can see her expression dampen just a bit, as a thought must come across her mind.

* * *

_ We can’t. _

She leans back, giving a modest smile. She tries not to be too clearly disappointed. This was about him. She came over to help Spencer get things off of his chest, to get to know him, to make good on their little contract. Not to kiss him. He’s a  _ coworker, _ she  _ couldn’t  _ even if she  _ wanted  _ to--  _ and I don’t! I’ve only known him four days! _

“Better?” She asks, friendly.

He sighs. There’s a passing look there… she’d call it longing, if she didn’t know better.

“Yeah. Much better.”

_ That’s the second time Reid lied tonight. And knowing I have no self-control, it’s going to be the second time I’m going to let him. _

* * *

She knows I’m lying.

Please-- I want you to call me out on it this time. I  _ need  _ you to. Let me tell you I’m not okay. Let me tell you how to make me better.

* * *

It’d be so easy for her to just lean forward. To learn what kind of kisser he is.

She feels his hand twitch in hers.

_ Say something. _

* * *

“ _ Good,”  _ she  _ whimpers.  _ God, she  _ whimpers. _

“Y/N, I--”

“I need to get home and feed Maggot.”

What?

“What?”

“My- m-my dog. Maggot. I have to feed him.” She pulls her hands away, and my skin begs for their return.

“Oh. Okay.”

“I’m sorry! You’re-- you  _ do _ feel better, right?”

“Yeah! Yeah, I do, it’s-- it’s really no problem.”

“Okay, good. I-- I really enjoyed this,” she’s getting up, oh, no, she’s really going to leave, please sit down, “and-- I’m _always_ here for you, you know that, right? Please know that.” She begs.

“I do. I know.” I chase after her to the door.

“Really, I am.”

“I know, Y/N.”

She reaches behind her for the doorknob. I have an instinct to help, but I know damn well I’ll just end up making things more awkward somehow, so I let her struggle a second longer. Once she opens the door and steps into the doorframe, she looks at me once more, having taken a deep breath.

“Good night, Spence.”

“Good night, Y/N.”

I let her go. I let her walk away, and now, I'm alone, again, forced to face revelations about Y/N and I. 

I finally had come to terms about the first one, the one from the road trip-- that I _want_ her and I can't have her.

Now, I have to face another two. The first, that _she definitely wants me, too (!!!!!!!)._

The second one I realize when I move back over to my couch after sulking a little at my door. I sink back down, and in my peripheral, I notice a cloth that isn't part of the usual stack of blankets on my couch. I pick it up, and quickly recognize it to be a scarf. Y/N's scarf. That she was wearing until the _moment_ she sat down on the couch-- I remember watching her slide it out from underneath her hair and set it down on the cushion. I know that she left it on purpose, and then it hit me: _she knows I like her, and I know she likes me._

Shamefully, I lift the scarf to my face and inhale.


	8. Paraphilia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hotch tells the unit that they’re on advisory duty for the week, where the B.A.U. calls in advice on less urgent cases and remains in Quantico. A case from Y/N’s past returns.  
> \--  
> I feel real fucked up for writing this chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i moved the rating up to explicit!!!!! it's not because of porn tho sorry guys :/  
> also pls bring back the comments i wanna hear from yall : - )
> 
> CHAPTER WARNINGS:  
> this chapter details sexual assault that takes place on a case victim. it is more detailed than the brief mention of reid’s sexual assault in the last chapter. significantly more detailed. please be wary when reading.

First, I find out that she’s skilled at cryptology when I’m solving a puzzle at work to pass the time. Then, I find that her mind operates as fast as mine as we’re working a case and we both come to an obscure conclusion at the exact same time. Next, we spend more than half a day together in a confined space, which leads to proximity bonding-- which I absolutely do not have an issue with, in fact, it’s encouraged in our field of work!-- but the issue is that the next morning, she showed signs of… _interest…_ in me, right after I’d woken up. _That_ is an issue, because from that point on, I couldn’t see her in any other light. 

She was interested in me. _Her. Me._ I _styled_ my hair that day. When I picked my socks that morning, I didn’t just grab two random ones, I made sure they were complementary colors. I’ve done that _once_ in my life, and that was for Maeve, and didn’t _that_ just--

This is an issue, because even after I realized that I absolutely _cannot_ have Y/N, that it could cause serious complications with work, I let her deeper into my life. Then, she comes up with her terribly brilliant plan where she offers herself to me as a therapist whenever she decides that I’m not doing well, and her divine, internal lie detector prevents me from lying if I don’t feel like getting help. And that day in the car, when she made it clear that it wasn’t just a ‘plan,’ but it was a _deal,_ a _contract_ that she wanted me to agree to right then and there, what do I say to this woman, who I have _already_ told myself I cannot pursue romantically? 

_Fine._

But of course it didn't stop there. Why would it? I have no self-control. Next, I invited her to my home after work. I let her take that damned scarf (that I’ve been _very_ shamefully sleeping with every night this week) off and set it on my couch, _my_ couch, that has never been sat on by anyone but me, my mom, and her caretakers. God, I let her _touch those letters._ I almost told her about what Lindsay Vaughn did to me.

And… I let her soft, _soft_ hands touch mine, over and over. With those gentle, affirming squeezes that could fuel me with enough self-confidence to crack the Zodiac’s still-undeciphered letters. 

But the worst of all? In a moment of weakness, I lost control, and I still haven’t gained it back.

I felt so safe with Y/N. I’d been chasing that feeling, the one that Y/N somehow made me feel that night, for over two decades now. The feeling that I last felt when I was 8 years old, curled up in Mom’s arms after a particularly rough school day full of bullying. The day after that, Mom started looking over her shoulder. She wouldn’t let anyone else make her food and pour her drinks. That was the last day that she didn’t suffer from paranoid schizophrenia, and that was the last day that she was capable of really, truly caring for me.

And all these years later, Y/N filled that hole. She didn’t say a word as I cried into her neck, as I curled up on her lap, touched her stomach. She didn’t say a word when I managed to calm myself but stayed snug with her for _just_ a moment longer. And when the time came to speak, she said exactly what I needed to hear. 

_It’s okay._

And I believed her. I still do.

I just wish I could’ve thanked her in a better way.

I didn’t sleep after she left that night. I was too busy thinking about everything that’d just happened and what it meant for me. What changed between her and I, what I needed to do at work around her. I didn’t get any direct answers from myself, so, I walked into work the next day without a plan. Against my will, that was the first time I’ve ever gone into something without a plan. My ‘plan’ was hoping that she’d look up at me, from behind her be-stickered laptop, and ask me to talk. Pull me aside, and finally address the unspoken thing that’s between us now: that we like each other, and we both know it. 

And then maybe I’d have gotten the chance to thank her more appropriately.

Instead, Hotch called the unit into the conference room, and told the team that we'd be on advising duty for the week. He handed us all three cases each, and sent us off to work. I got through my cases fairly quickly, figuring out what weak points needed to be re-examined, and designing the profile they should be using. All the while, I nursed the idea at the back of my mind that once I get through my work, I can finally do _something_ about Y/N, who sat behind me at her desk, working away at her files. Just as I prepared to finally do that, turning in my chair to face her, Hotch materialized out of nowhere and dropped three more case files on my desk.

That same, insufferable situation of rushing through work I excel at, only for Hotch to give me more work, when I have something that is _much_ more enticing waiting for me once I finish it all, continued on daily for a _week,_ and today is no different.

If there is a divine being that controls the daily events of our lives, I would like to die now, so I can meet my maker and inform them that I hate them more than anything I’ve ever hated before.

* * *

“Hey, Hotch?”

She presses Hotch’s office extension and addresses him.

“Yes.” He responds on speakerphone.

“I’ve got one that I need the team’s input on, I’m a little stuck.”

“Alright.” _Click._

A second later, Hotch emerges from his office. “I’m sure you heard that, guys. Come on.”

Everyone heads up to the round table.

“Garcia, you got everything I forwarded?” Y/N stands at the head of the table, trying to repress her excitement at the prospect of minor leadership, as she uses her tablet.

“Yes, ma’am, and I totally see why you’re struggling.” _Click._ Information pops up on the screen. “I’m no profiler, but I’ve learned a few things along the way, and I still can’t see any connections between these 11 people.”

“I’m sorry, _11?”_ Morgan interrupts.

“Yeah…” she grimaces. “It _is_ taking place in Hollywood, so they’re used to higher death counts, but 11 lives _are_ a _lot_ to wait on while they sit around twiddling their thumbs.”

“It’s not that they waited,” Y/N begins, “it’s because they only recently saw a connection here. Garcia, can you pull up all 11 photos of the victims side-by-side, please?”

She makes a little chirp and does so.

“What do you guys see here?” She asks, but her tone says she knows the answer.

“Victimology is all over the place.” Prentiss observes. She’s right-- there are 6 men and 5 women, and the racial spectrum is colorful.

“Yeah. And _that’s_ why I have absolutely no clue what to do here.” She makes an exasperated gesture, her hands slapping against her thighs. “The thing that eventually made Hollywood PD make the connection is that all of the bodies were laid face-up at night, and M.O. is similar for each. Gunshots with insignificant variation on caliber and number of shots.” Y/N says, disgruntled.

“So much for starting with the victimology,” J.J. complains.

Reid springs up, uncapping a marker, and moves over to the blank plexiglass planning board.

“Let’s get all the information plotted.” Reid mutters to himself, probably unknowingly thinking aloud again. With the marker resting between his fingers, he starts spacing out the victim’s photos on the board.

“Well, in other cases where victimology was across the board, what did we turn to next?” Rossi poses.

“Where the body was found.” Prentiss answers.

“And when they were killed. How far apart each body was.” J.J. adds.

“O-kay, so let’s look at that. Y/N, you said that they were found lying face-up, during the night time?”

“Yes. The police _did_ do _some_ work. They put together that the unsub must have purposefully placed the bodies in fields of grass near popular nighttime destinations-- clubs, bars. The victims had no strong connections to any of the establishments, so they concluded the bodies were placed there so someone would find it before the sun came up.”

“Not bad,” Rossi says, jutting his lip out in impression, enhancing his bulldog-like features even further. “That’s a lot of information for a regular PD to gather so quickly.”

“It wasn’t quick. That’s the next part I was going to bring up-- how far apart each body is found. They were found exactly a month apart each, so they had plenty of time to do their research on the victims. It didn’t help enough, though. On top of that, every cadaver was _fresh._ M.E. says within hours for each victim--”

“W-wait, hold on.” Reid grabs attention. His board has made significant progress-- all the photos are up, as well as basic information, like birth and death dates, ages, and professions. “Each of these dates are the start of astrological periods, look-- Catherine died March 21st, which is the start of Aries season. Johan died on the start date of Taurus season, and so on.”

“That would explain why they’re facing the night sky-- maybe the unsub wants them to see the constellations?” Rossi guesses.

“Reid, do the victim’s zodiac signs correlate with the con--”

“Damn it. No, they don’t.” He answers before Y/N can finish, planting his hands on his hips.

“Well,” she makes her way over to him. “Don’t worry, Spence. You’ve still got something pretty good here.” She comforts softly. Her voice sounds a lot less professional than she intends.

He double-takes at her.

“Uh-- estrulgyzasoo--” he slurs, and then clears his throat, as if something distracted him. “Astrology is a pseudoscience, so we can probably make some valuable assumptions about our unsub based off of that alone.”

She looks down, blushing, trying to forget how her praise made him _that_ flustered. She saw the red, flushed skin peeking out from underneath his shirt collar, even. 

_How far down does that blush go?_

“Uh-- do we, uh, know anything about their personal lives?” She crosses her arms and then turns to face the team.

When she turns, she’s first met with one of Hotch’s many stern expressions, but this one has a variation of curiosity to it. He looks between her and Reid silently. In fact, as she looks around the room, most of the team are silently looking between the two, until Garcia pipes up.

“Yyyyes,” She snaps out of it, bending down to her laptop. “They’re all fairly young, so, their social media is a good representation of who they are.”

“Heh!” Rossi laughs to himself. “More like who they want _others_ to see them as.” he comments in boomer-lingo.

_Oh, my God, that’s--_

“That’s it!” Reid and Y/N say, in unison.

Morgan rolls his eyes and prompts them to speak.

“Come on, geniuses, spit it out.”

“In natal and western astrology, the sun sign represents the whole of who you are, how you view life. It’s like the summarization of all your astrological placements in one.” Reid starts.

“Yes, and you have signs for each planet, as well as the moon and a few points in the ecliptic coordinate system.” She looks at Reid as she continues. “One of those points is the ascendant,” she starts to smile as she notices that Reid is nodding, and mouthing what she’s saying, to himself. _We’re on the same exact page again._ “... and the ascendant is representative of what you look like.” She looks back to Morgan. 

“Astrologers say that when someone guesses your sun sign, they’re actually more accurately guessing your ascendant, because your ascendant is supposed to represent what others see first in you.” Reid adds on in agreement. “The unsub is killing people that he believes fit into the stereotype of their ascendant sign during the season that correlates to it.” He concludes.

The team remains quiet, impressed. Except for Garcia, of course.

“Damn it, why do the bad guys always have to ruin fun stuff?! I _love_ reading my horoscope.” She stomps and closes her laptop.

“Y/N,” Reid finally looks at her. “The only sign that doesn’t have a body attached to it is Libra. The killer will strike again in about two weeks when Libra season begins.” Spencer’s big features are as serious as ever.

“I’ll call the PD and let them know. They’ve got more than enough time to find the guy before that deadline.” She pulls her phone out. “Thanks, everyone.”

* * *

Once Y/N leaves, the rest of the team starts getting up to return to their desks.

“Actually, everyone,” Hotch calls, “I’d like for us to remain here at the round table. I’m sure I speak for everyone when I say we work best when collaborating. Please grab your cases from your desk and return here, we’ll work through them together.”

 _Oh,_ thank God.

“Okay, I’ve got one.” J.J. says, her voice already tense. She sounds like that when she’s at a loss with a case. She stands up, her case already in hand, and moves to the plexiglass planning board. She starts replacing the first case’s victim photos with her new ones.

_Woah._

“Jesus…” Morgan voices, grimacing.

“Yeah, these pictures are… really hard to look away from. Every time I picked up this case file during the week, I just couldn’t focus and had to set it down and work on something else.”

“They’re all alive.” I observe.

“Yes. There are non-life-threatening injuries on each, some much worse than others, however, the mental damage…” J.J. looks to the floor, shaking her head. “Um, I’ll… break everything down. Garcia, you don’t need to be here for this. In fact, you should probably go. This kind of thing will be tough on you.”

Garcia was already clacking out of the room, laptop in hand, by the time J.J. finished talking. Y/N had also walked back in by then, probably just having finished the phone call with her P.D.

“So. Six victims, all female, young, attractive. Each was found, uh, bound, in public, and each had some sort of item or aspect to the… _scene_ that’s special to just them.” She clears her throat. “The first is Roberta James, 22. As you can see, she is an amputee. She lost her leg in a car accident when she was 19. The… unsub, uh…” J.J. reads a line in her folder repeatedly. I can see her eyes moving back and forth. 

I reach my hand out towards her. I’ve developed the reputation of being able to say particularly gruesome or otherwise unfavorable things, and clearly, that ability of mine is needed.

She hands me the folder, and I turn to James’ page, look down to the notes section, and

“James’ prosthetic was found covered in a water-based lubricant and forced into her re--” _rectal cavity. Dilation was nearly 18 centimeters, allowing the prosthetic to be inserted nearly half an inch into the cavity._

They shift uncomfortably in their seats, putting together the rest.

“Th-the hospital left some details i-implying she’ll make a full recovery.” I add on. They should hear that. “Somehow, there’s no indication that she’ll suffer any long-lasting trauma.”

“It’s because of muscle elasticity.” Y/N mutters.

“Muscle elasticity?” Rossi prods. “I thought that only applied to the birth canal.”

I look over to Y/N. She meets my gaze, and a sympathetic look spreads across her face. She doesn’t want to explain it to the unit-- it’ll shed light on a very personal aspect of the victim’s life.

But, we have to. It could be a lead.

“With enough… practice… and stretching over time, that’s not the only place that muscle elasticity can develop.” I deliver the news to the team as respectfully as possible.

I look up. The expressions on the faces around me show me that I don’t need to detail any further.

“It can be a lead.” Hotch says, seemingly unphased as per usual. “The unsub would have to know about her sex life to know that she’d bounce ba-- ahem.” He stops himself in his track, realizing his somewhat inappropriate vocabulary. “That she’d recover from these injuries.”

Y/N turns away from the team, facing the planning board. She’s biting her lip, closing her eyes tightly-- oh my God, she’s holding back a laugh.

And now, so am I.

“What about the next one?” J.J. asks loudly, with a scornful tone. When we both turn around, she’s staring daggers at us.

Y/N clears her throat and straightens her blazer.

“Yeah, go for it, J.J.” I say, faux-composure in my voice. And I regret it immediately when her jaw nearly drops and her brows hit her hairline.

“Yeah, I think I will, Spence.” She says, and then gives Y/N a good stare-down, too, before gesturing to the next set of photos. “That’s Clementine Bell. Uh, she-- she’s… 19.”

Any hint of humor has left us both as we turn back to the board, looking at what happened to Clementine.

“Bell was bound in the same way as James, and was left in public. She was _covered_ in defensive wounds, ligature marks, and bruises on her hips, thighs, and waist.”

“Rape injuries… _was_ she?” Morgan asks.

“No, but the unsub left a hospital-grade rape kit in her lap.”

“What is he trying to say? ‘I _could_ if I wanted to?’” Rossi asks.

“Wait-- there’s evidence of consensual sex.” Hotch comments.

“Guys, I think I’m starting to see a connection here.” I point out. “J.J., can you summarize what happened with the rest of the victims?”

“Uh, yeah, I… I can try. They were all found tied in the same way as James and Bell, and were in public. The next victim, Clarissa Lopez, 27, had bruising in her esophagus and dark makeup stains down her cheek…” Her eyes widen, and she coughs away her empathetic pain, and pushes through. “The next woman, Caty Dylan, 25, was covered in a wide array of marks that are consistent with masochistic play toys-- whips, paddles, flogs. Then, Jessica Goldstein, 22, had been dressed only in high heels, and had wounds consistent with being stepped on. The last is Dana Coolidge… 18. She had the words ‘fuck yes’ carved into her thigh, and she was wearing headphones that were playing a loop of moaning men and curse words.” She drops the file with a _smack_ on the round table.

“Okay, so, clearly this has to do with BDSM.” Morgan comments.

“Terminology has been updated,” I start. “BDSM refers only to when it is between consensual partners, this is considered both sexual assault and paraphilic disorder, at least, on the part of the unsub-- these women each have a specific sexual _kink_ that the unsub knew about, and from the first two, it seems like it began as a consensual interaction, so I think that our unsub found out about what these women liked and then used it against them.”

“I understand what these are all referencing-- acrotomophilia and apotemnophilia for James,” Prentiss points to James’ photo. “Raptophilia,” she points to Bell, “then… I think Lopez’ is a combination of dacryphilia, masochism, and asphyxiaphilia. Dylan is a classic masochist, and Goldstein’s scene shows obvious signs of shoe fetishism. I just don’t understand what paraphilia is being displayed for Coolidge.”

I hear a whisper to my left, and turn to find Y/N’s lips moving.

“What?”

“It’s called narratophilia. It's a sexual attraction surrounding talking. Most commonly, attraction to hearing obscene words being spoken, but it can be as simple as someone reading a book aloud or having a conversation.” She… admits.

Admits.

“That would explain the audio, but not the injury.” Prentiss notes.

“He felt the need to physically injure her somehow, so he stretched his M.O. to fit her kink.” I explain on autopilot, but really, I can’t focus. What _was_ that?

Why did she whisper it?

* * *

_Just don’t look at him and act cool and he’ll forget about it._

“So we’re saying that this guy targets his play partners?” J.J. asks, taking her phone out.

“I think it’s more than that.” Hotch’s solid voice corrects. “He’s publicly humiliating them and leaving them to live with their trauma.”

“That… would fit the profile of a moral vigilante.” J.J. nods, seeing what Hotch was seeing. “He wants them to repent for their sexual interests, maybe he views it as disgusting or even as a sin.”

“You should suggest that the P.D. there takes a look at men on BDSM dating apps in the area, and look for profiles that imply they’re down for anything.” Prentiss nods towards J.J.

“Good idea. Thanks, guys.”

~ 

“Don’t worry, I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

Y/N stands, her arms crossed, waiting for Maggot to finish marking someone’s lawn while they’re on their nightly walk. The dog makes intense, unwavering eye contact with Y/N as she pushes it out.

“Why do you _do_ that?”

Y/N is lucky enough to have not received a call from Garcia all weekend. She took all that lovely time to herself, her pup, and season 7 of Dexter. She decided long ago that she would _totally_ ‘mess up’ a profile if she suspected the unsub was Michael C. Hall.

Maggot kicks her tiny, ratty, little feet and digs up approximately 3 or 4 blades of grass to ‘hide’ her poop, and the two set off on the way back home.

_Whatever, it’s fertilizer._

She’d be lying if she said that she didn’t miss work, though. After her unit was KIA, the Bureau forced her to take a month off. Since then, she hasn’t taken a single sick day, and took every opportunity to come in and give an extra hand. She couldn’t stand just _sitting_ there, and being forced to do exactly that for a whole month filled her ‘sitting around’ quota for a lifetime. 

She didn’t understand how other people in the FBI were always so desperate for a vacation. Before, when she was working a desk job in the Civil Rights division, all the watercooler talk was about _‘I can’t wait to get home and kick my feet up,’_ and, _‘I’m so overworked.’_ To be excited to leave a job where you are _essential_ to maintaining the integrity of the Civil Rights Acts is to be questionable in morality in the eyes of Y/N.

Now, her job is more important than ever, and all of her coworkers are on the same page when it comes to time off. That gave her a good first impression of her new team.

Except this time, this weekend, she wasn’t as eager to get back to the office.

She was starting to get worried that her recent _distractions_ were going to cause issues in the field, or in the case of last week, in the office. They did-- a _few_ times. She could’ve sworn that she saw Spence start to turn in his chair to face her after he finished his work, but then Hotch came and gave him more work to do. And then the moment of laughter they shared when Hotch slipped up, and J.J. had to mom them back into seriousness? That was just too good.

And when Spencer undoubtedly noticed she was acting a little strange when she educated the team on narratophilia.

She _doesn’t_ have that kink. She just noticed that she enjoyed Reid’s little speeches on whatever topic he saw fit. She noticed, pretty quickly, that Reid doesn’t swear, and wondered what it’d sound like in his voice. And she noticed every time Reid’s tone changed whenever the topic of conversation changed. _She_ can’t help that his voice is so expressive.

_God, not to mention that morning at the motel…_

_See,_ that _is why you’re so restless this weekend._ At the same time that she understood she needed the time off, she also understood that she really wanted to go back to work. She wants to help save the world, of course, but also, she just wants to be around him. She wants to hear him talk. She wants to catch him in his obvious little lies and call him out. She wants to look over at him, and find him already looking at her, smiling, when they both hear something that only they understand the humor behind. She wants to have another conversation with him, like the one they had on the road trip, like the one at his place that night.

As she unlocks her apartment door, with little Maggot waiting at her feet, Y/N wonders if Spencer knows that she left her scarf at his place on purpose.

_Either he knows that and he’s keeping it anyway, or he never noticed it was there._

_And there’s_ no _way he ‘never notices’ something. Not Dr. Reid._

She unbuckles Maggot’s leash, and as the little womp rat runs off, Y/N checks her phone.

“Fuck!”

She re-dials Garcia and reaches for her go-bag behind the kitchen island.

“Hey, miss ma’am. You’re… gonna wanna be here for this one.”

  
  



	9. Surrogate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hotch is proven wrong. Simmons, Alvez, and Lewis join the team. Reid starts to move on.  
> \--  
> x

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just finished season 14 and I’m a few episodes into 15, and I have a LOT of feelings about the J.J./Spence plotline. I definitely can see it in J.J., that she loves him, but when Spence goes and visits his mom and they’re both acting like they just know that Spence has loved her all this time? nah. where did that come from? I’m just glad that the show seems to be taking a path where they both move on from it almost immediately. I guess it was a ruse to get the viewers they lost from season 13 to come back. fair enough. anyway, i’m really proud of this chapter. leave comments to inspire me to continue on <3

_ 40. _

_ 45. _

_ 50. _

_ 55. _

_ Fuck it. _

She reaches over to her passenger seat and grabs her siren light, and, once her window finishes rolling down, she plants it on the roof of her car.

She doesn’t pay attention to her speed after she turns the siren on, or to how the cars around her part the way for her. All she can pay attention to is the phrase repeating in her head:  _ you’re gonna wanna be here for this one. _

She’s known Garcia for just around two weeks, and in that time, she learned that Garcia’s dialogue consists half of jokes, half of hesitant news-bearing. She  _ also _ knows her tone for each of those circumstances; when she’s joking, she sounds comically serious, like she knows that a straight face will make her audience laugh just a little harder. And when she’s delivering a victim’s name or an unsub’s tragic past, you can practically hear the grimace on her face and the apologetic tone in her voice. Her tone this time, though, when she says,  _ you’re gonna wanna be here for this one,  _ wasn’t apologetic.

It was  _ sympathetic. _

Sympathetic, like Garcia thought that _ saying those words to me would hurt me _ .  _ No, that doesn’t make sense. _ It was more like Garcia knew that…  _ that whatever is waiting for me at the office is going to hurt me. _ Something doesn’t feel right about this case.

She steps on the gas.

* * *

I’m immersed in  _ A Scandal in Bohemia _ when she comes speeding into the round table room like a bullet.

“Where is everyone?” She asks, breathlessly.

“Uh, t-they’re not here yet-- are you okay?”

“Fine.” She retorts. Y/N drops her go-bag on the round table, plants her hands on her hips, and restlessly paces.

I stare her down and wait for her to notice. She leans against the table, white-knuckling the edge of it, before she can’t help but look at me.

“What?” she barks.

_ Okay, maybe just let her storm around…  _

“I’m sorry,” she concedes, plopping down into a chair.

“‘S a bit hypocritical…”

“What?” she repeats.

“It’s hypocritical.” I raise my voice a little.

“What is?  _ Me?” _ Her tone starts to get fiery again.

“I… I mean,  _ yeah. _ ” I hear myself shrink. You should’ve just let it go, genius. “You made me agree to never lie to you about how I’m feeling, and… you’re yelling at me like  _ I’m _ the reason you’re upset. I’m just asking you what’s wrong.”

She takes a deep breath and leans off of the table, already starting to listen to what I’m saying.

“The deal goes both ways from now on, Y/N.” I finish.

“Okay.” She says after a moment of self-soothing behavior. “Alright. I’m sorry, Spence.” 

She looks tragically pretty when she’s guilty. 

“No, obviously I am not okay.”

_ “Thank _ you. Now, please-- explain.” I gesture forward, giving her the floor.

“The way Garcia sounded on the phone. It wasn’t right. She sounded like… like she knew something I didn’t. Like she was  _ sorry _ for me.” She explains, looking at her hands as they gesture about. “I just don’t feel right about this case.”

Footsteps echo from the bridge leading to the round table room. I turn back to her.

“Everything’ll be alright. Don’t worry.” I assure her, just as the rest of the team pours in, taking their positions at the table.

“Alright, have a seat, everyone.” Hotch announces, following a few steps behind the group. “We’ve got a detective from Seattle PD that’s gone missing, a Lilian Hanover. Garcia?”

“Uh, yes sir. The B.A.U. has been called in due to special circumstances, since she  _ is _ a member of law enforcement.”  _ Beep. _ A photo of the detective appears on the screen. 

She… looks  _ just _ like Y/N.

Except Y/N looks a lot more afraid right now than Lilian does in the photo.

“I… I wasn’t sure if it was a coincidence or not, that it’s a female detective from Seattle that looks like you, but… that’s why I was so urgent on the phone.” Garcia tentatively says to Y/N.

Y/N wordlessly nods. She’s compensating, trying to appear composed. Over-composed.

“Um… you’ve all got photos of where she was last seen, which was her office, in your folders. Go ahead and take a look.”

“There’s nothing off about the scene.” Morgan narrows his eyes as he examines the photo.

“Yeah, her desk looks like the normal amount of messy…“ J.J. studies the photo.

“Nothing missing from her office? Maybe misplaced files?” I ask. 

Garcia shakes her head.

“ _ Oh, my God,”  _ Y/N whimpers.

“What’s wrong?”

“The book.” She stands up and heads over to my chair, holding one of the photos in a shaking hand. One finger jabs at the photo of the detective’s bookshelf, pointing at the spine of a specific book. Her breath shatters into instability, and in instinct, I wrap my arm around her hip and pull her into me. Her eyes don’t move from what she’s pointing at.

“It’s, um,  _ The Parent and the Child, _ by Dr. Elizabeth Wright.” I inform the rest of the team gently, but I remain focused on the woman in need above me.

“This has  _ got _ to be Robert Wright. He’s coming back for me.” She sobs dryly. I try to comfort her, rubbing her lower back, but her demeanor doesn’t change.

The team looks around at each other, cluelessness and concern on their faces, before they settle on Hotch for answers. Hotch frowns at the scene in front of him.

“Y/N, are you  _ sure _ it’s him?”

My hand freezes on her as she’s expected to talk.

“I-- I mean, the  _ book, _ the way she looks  _ just _ like me-- a-a  _ detective _ from  _ Seattle? _ ” She stutters.

Hotch watches her for a moment longer, and then turns to the team, talking to them.

“I’ll explain who Wright is on the way there. We’ll have agents Simmons, Lewis, and Alvez return to assist us on the case, they’ll meet us there. Wheels up in 30.” Hotch announces.

I look back up to Y/N, and she’s closing her eyes, taking a deep breath. I go back to gently rubbing my hand into her back, doing my best to ignore the stare I receive from J.J.’s direction.

_ You want me to move on? This is how I’m going to do it. _

~

As soon as I open the door connecting the jet’s seating area to the kitchenette and bathroom, the team is looking at me expectantly.

“She’ll be okay. She just needs some time.” I assure them. I hate to have left her alone, but she barely said a word to me when I went to check on her. It’s clear that she’s the type to recover best by herself.

“Okay, let’s talk about who Robert Wright is.” Hotch nearly sighs out, as I take a seat. “He’s a serial killer that’s been operating since 1993, he has 18 confirmed victims, and another 6 suspected, from all across the country. All female, all alike in resemblance and age range.”

“Wait, I think I’ve heard of this guy.” Prentiss interrupts. “Isn’t he a cannibal?”

“Yes. He developed a cannibalistic tendency around 2000, approximately ten victims into his spree.” He taps his tablet, and then the rest of the team follows along on the presentation on their own tablets. I turn the page in my packet. “His mother is Doctor Elizabeth Wright, a now-retired psychotherapist. Part of his M.O. was that he’d leave a copy of his mother’s book in the home of his victim. When… Agent Y/L/N’s unit took over the case, the detective in Atlanta that made the initial connection recanvassed the families, and all the ones she could get into contact with said that the victims would’ve never had a book like that in their home. That’s when they looked into Wright and her family, and… Y/N’s profile perfectly fit the author’s estranged son.”

“Estranged?” J.J. questions.

“Yes. With the help of his mother, Y/N’s previous unit put together a mental health profile on Robert. He grew up a delusional schizophrenic suffering with depression, and he left home on the day of his 18th birthday. Both illnesses went untreated. His mother hasn’t seen him since.”

“Is it possible that Robert could be searching out his mother as a final target, like our last case?” Morgan poses.

“No.”

Y/N appears from behind everyone. She walks down the aisle and takes her seat.

“He doesn’t blame his mother for all of this.” She says, her voice a little raw. “At least, not consciously. All he knows is that he hates women that are smarter than him, and believes that consuming their brain will transfer their intelligence to him.”

_ Beep beep beep! _

“Hey, y’all. I’m starting to think that I’m going to download a voice changer to use whenever I call you guys on the jet so that way you won’t subconsciously associate my voice with the bearing of bad news.”

“What do you have, Garcia?”

“Detective Lilian Hanover’s body has been recovered.” She clears her throat. “Her body… was found inside of a refrigerated storage container. The photos are being sent to your tablets now.”

-

She swipes on the tablet, her hand already starting to shake.

In the photos, Detective Hanover is kneeling on the steel, perforated criss-cross floor of the storage container. Her ankles are crossed and tied together behind her, and her wrists lay limp in rope bindings. Her neck is aiming forward and down, as if the head that  _ should _ be sitting on top of her neck was slumped down. However, because Wright followed his M.O. perfectly, her head isn’t there. It was cut clean off, evident by how smooth the plane of her neck is. She doesn’t need to swipe to the next photo to know what’s in it, but she does anyway. She needs to see it.

Hanover’s head, or, rather, its remains, lay on its side. Her eyes are wide open, her mouth slightly ajar, and her skin is pale and frosted over. Just above where her neck was cut, there’s a clean, small bullet hole in her neck-- C.O.D.

And just above her brow bone is a horizontal cut that splits her forehead in half, revealing the emptiness inside of her skull.

She starts to swipe the screen again, but someone takes her wrist before she can. She looks up to see Spencer. She realizes that her vision is blurry near the bottom.

Wordlessly, they speak to each other.

_ I can take it, Spence. _

He lets her wrist go.

She takes a deep breath, and swipes once more.

In the center of the storage container floor, next to an evidence tag, sits Havover’s brain. Pink lobes fold against each other to make a darker red crease, and over it all, a fuzzy white layer of frost. The frost is thicker in the temporal lobe, or at least, where it should be. Instead, there’s a chunk missing in the grey matter, patterns consistent with a bite removal.

“Are you okay?” Prentiss leans across the table and into Y/N’s vision.

Y/N turns the tablet off and swallows.

“This isn’t about Detective Hanover,” she sniffs, “it’s a message.”

“What is he trying to say?”

“He’s coming back to finish the job. He wants me.”

-

~

“Is she positive that she wants to give the profile so soon? We  _ just _ got set up.” Emily asks, just within earshot of the makeshift round table room that the Seattle PD gave us.

“She worked this case for nearly a month before her transfer, and has had more in-person interaction with our unsub than any law enforcement agent out there. She’s not just ready for the profile, I’m letting her take lead on this case.” A pause. “I know, but I’m confident in her abilities. Y/N  _ is _ prepared to operate at her fullest capacity. And, we’ll be with her the whole way, as usual.” Hotch confirms, his voice solid as ever.

“I trust her. She’s intelligent, she’s experienced, but… it’s only been 7 weeks since she escaped him with her life. You don’t think she’ll…?”

“I’ve made it clear to her that she is not to go rogue at any point during the case or to attempt to outsmart any traps he may set up for her.”

I hear feet shuffling, so I move away from the door and back towards the planning board. 

Emily peeks in and gestures for everyone to follow her. “It’s time to deliver the profile.”

“Our unsub is Robert Wright. He now has 19 confirmed victims, including Hanover and three other law enforcement agents, with an additional 6 suspected victims that we have agents working on confirming right now.” Hotch starts, at the head of the line.

“I was a part of the task force that came close to catching him approximately two months ago, and my unit was able to gather quite a bit of information on his history-- some of that info came from his mother.” Y/N says, her voice a large contrast to Hotch’s firm tone.

“Wright was born a delusional schizophrenic and suffered from depression from a young age, his mother is Doctor Elizabeth Wright who was, at the time, a psychotherapist and an aspiring author, her power and intelligence, combined with his untreated mental health issues, led to a negative mother complex within Wright.” I add on.

“His schizophrenia caused a delusion where he saw his mother’s affection as  _ dangerous _ , and that she was mothering him with the intention to sacrifice him, in order to make her name even more renowned in her field. As a result of this fear, he left home at 18.” Alvez describes.

“Throughout college, he managed to prevent showing any red flags to his fellow students and teachers. We believe this was due to his deep depression that counteracted the hyperactivity of his schizophrenia. During this time, he killed two women, both professors at the university he was attending. To evade suspicion, he fled, and travelled college-to-college to continue killing. After successfully evading capture for these two kills, he began to develop narcissistic qualities that are outside of the delusions of grandeur that are typical with schizophrenia.” Emily reports.

“Before this point in his life, his logic was that he killed women that he felt were smart enough to hurt him, like his mother. His ideology changed, however; he started to stroke his own ego, and wanted to feel smarter than the women he murders. It wasn’t just about survival anymore, it was about superiority. Now with a full-blown narcissistic personality disorder, he uses Bundy-like ruses to kill. The most recent development in his M.O. is cannibalism. He takes one bite from the temporal lobe of each of his victims. We believe he is doing this because he believes that he is absorbing the intelligence of his victims.” Y/N explains.

“Two months ago, with the help of his now-retired mother, Agent Y/L/N’s unit tracked down Wright. Unfortunately, it ended up being a trap-- we lost three law enforcement lives and were not able to capture Wright. He went into hiding, until now, with Hanover. His intention is to finish the job-- Y/N was the only person he did not get to kill before reinforcements spooked him away.”

Y/N is  _ rigid _ as Simmons explains the end of the story so far.

“Are there any questions on the unsub, before we talk about what comes next?” Y/N asks the force standing in front of her.

Silence.

“Okay,” She mutters, and gestures to the team.

“We believe that Wright will attempt to make contact with Seattle PD in the near future.” J.J. announces.

“If and when this happens, transfer the call immediately to one of us and inform our technical analyst so we can attempt to trace the call.” Hotch adds.

“He will most likely attempt to make some sort of deal. He needs leverage to do so, though, so we have reason to believe that there will be another victim.” Lewis informs.

“For that reason, we ask that you all be prepared to respond quickly to any 911 calls that sound like Wright might be involved. Look for missing persons reports, particularly those who look similar to the rest of the victims.” Alvez orders.

“If there aren’t any other questions, then I’d like for us to get to work.” Hotch gently prods everyone to get to it.

~

“You’ll probably want to double-check with Y/N on that one, just in case. This Jane Doe doesn’t fit the age range, but with Wright making us wait around for him, there’s no harm in double-checking.” Hotch hands back the file I gave to him.

“You got it.” I respond, already turning towards the conference room.

“Hey, Y/N, we’ve got a Doe but it’s probably noth--” I catch my tongue between my teeth as I cut myself off.

In the corner of the conference room is a couch, and on that couch, Y/N propped herself up against its cushions, and had fallen delicately asleep. Her eyes are unmoving under her eyelids, and I can tell she’s probably  _ just _ entered stage 1 of NREM. She crossed her arms before she fell asleep, and her head fell forward just a bit, in an attempt to rest on her own chest. She looks so… small, curled into herself like that. But not  _ weak  _ small. More like a  _ stout _ small. Like, if I were to wake her, I could see her using her frame to her advantage to play-fight me on interrupting her sleep. She’s atomic; tiny, compared to me-- but full of power.

It’s too soon for her to be on this case. It takes the average person about two months before they start to return to normal after experiencing a trauma, and it’s only been 7 weeks since she escaped death. Revenge is undoubtedly on her mind, and we professionally decided that Wright is going to try to trap Y/N. That’s a dangerous combination. However, Hotch knows what he’s doing, and if he trusts her enough to let her take lead on the case, then I do, too.

And that means she’ll need her rest.

I sit down at the table, in the chair closest to the door, and take a second look at the file myself. I’ll just intercept any missing persons reports that come in that need Y/N’s eyes, and if they look legitimate, I’ll wake her. For now, though, she’ll stay right there, cuddling into herself in her fragile sleep, under a watchful eye.

~

I’m about to finish the  _ Sherlock Holmes _ series again when a cop comes in, his heavy boots making enough sound to vibrate the coffee sitting on the table. I try to scramble up and push him out of the room before he starts talking, but I end up tossing my book into the cup and spilling its contents instead. I don’t even process what he was saying before I try to move him out of the room.

“Woah, woah! Sorry! Did I scare ya?” He basically yells.

“Shh- _ hhh!”  _ My hands are shaking in the air as I hiss at him. I nod my head over towards Y/N on the couch.

“No, no…” she groans. “I’m awake. It’s fine.”

“Oh. Heh, sorry ma’am, a-agent. Didn’t mean to wake you up.” He double-takes between her and me, but the second time he looks at me, he has fear on his face. He walks over to her and hands her a folder. “We got a missing persons report just outside Atlanta. She fits the victimology, except for age. We wanted to have you double-check it, just in case. Ma’am.”

She snaps the folder shut after looking at it long enough for the officer to finish his sentence.

“No, she’s not it.” She sticks it back up to the officer’s face.

“W-well, are you  _ sure? _ I mean, she looks a lot like y--”

“ _ Yes. _ ” she growls.

Like a kicked puppy, he shrinks and retreats. I take his arm, stopping him before he leaves the room.

“Sorry,” I whisper. “She’s going through a lot right now.”

The cop nods in understanding. His self-pity turns into sympathy for Y/N when he takes one last look at her, as she rests her head in her hands.

“Alright.” I start, grabbing one of the chairs and wheeling it up to her. “Start talking.”

She nearly scoffs, but she does have a slight smile.

“Ex _ cuse _ me?” Her tone is impressed, a little shocked. “Am I being in _ terrogated _ ?”

“No, you’re not being interrogated.” I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “You’re avoiding the discussion at hand by trying to slyly change the subject onto the way I sound right now.”

She bites down on her plump bottom lip, and looks down.  _ Caught. _ Her lip slides out from between her teeth, the skin staying white for just a moment before the blood comes rushing back in. 

“I’m being  _ profiled _ , that’s what’s happening…” she mutters.

“Talk to me, Y/N. What’s going on?” I plead.

The dominance followed by the immediate submission in my tone works. She starts talking.

“I can feel him.” She swallows. “I can feel that he’s _close,_ and it’s _killing_ me. And all I can do is wait. Wait for him to find some new, _poor_ girl to kidnap and hold against me.” She runs her hand through her hair. “I-- I need to know what he’s doing. _Right_ now, right this moment.” She finally looks back at me.

She’s scared.

“He could be hurting someone right now, Spence.”

“Y/N, let’s focus on what’s  _ real, _ okay? No ‘what-ifs.’” I keep her eye contact while I take her hand. “Now, think carefully. Is there  _ anywhere _ you can think of that he might use for a dump site?”

She closes her eyes, and her chest rises and falls as she takes a deep breath. I sit in silence, supporting, as she thinks.

“I mean, a refrigerated container.” She shakes her head, theorizing, with her eyes closed.

“We have units guarding anything similar to that. What else, Y/N?”

“Um, uh-- it’s gotta be somewhere  _ valuable _ , something that fits the story, and it’s all about his mom, whether he knows it or not, so it’s got to do with that. I don’t-- uh, maybe…”

Her face stills, and then falls. She knows the answer. She knows where he is, where he’s taking her.

“Where?” I prod her.

-

_ Wright probably read his own files when he went for Hanover, and saw the way that his mother described him. That means he’s self-aware about his negative mother complex now. Those two months between kills were undoubtedly used to process that information. He sees now that he’s doing this all because his mother never faced the fact that her own son needed psychological treatment. _

_ So he’s going to his mom’s old therapist’s office. To finally ‘get treatment.’ _

_ The building’s been abandoned ever since she retired. _

_ I have to get there before he does. _

She hears the word that Spencer says to her, recognizes it, but doesn’t process it. Not until she realizes that she has no choice but to lie to him.

“I… don’t know, Spence.” 

-

For  _ just _ a moment, her eyes dart to the left, but otherwise, her expression remains the same as she tells me that she’s clueless.

As she  _ lies _ to me, and tells me she’s clueless.

She’s not going to admit the truth even if I call her out on lying. She’ll stick to her guns, even if it means obstruction of justice. Because whatever information is hidden away in her head, she thinks that it’s best kept in her hands and her hands only. So all I can do is keep her here as long as possible and  _ away _ from whatever location she’s undoubtedly planning to go and visit.

“Okay.” I faux-concede. “Alright, that’s okay. I think-- I think you should go back to sleep, Y/N. You’ve only gotten about two hours of rest in the last 24 hours.” I hold her shoulders and ease her back onto the couch, just a  _ bit _ forcefully. She follows along, lying down and lifting her legs onto the couch, too. “I’ll be right there when you wake up,” I point to the place I was sitting before, right near the door, “to help you if you need it, okay?”

_ And I’ll be there when you try to leave to hunt down Wright, to stop you. _

She watches me as I remove my cardigan and place it over her. Then, she closes her eyes.

_ If you’ll let me. _

~

She’s  _ dead _ asleep.

I mean, she’s  _ drooling _ , she’s that asleep. This is hour 11 of both waiting on Wright and of Y/N’s sleep. She still has to complete anywhere from 1 to 2 more hours of sleep in order to conclude this REM cycle, so I think it’s safe to  _ finally  _ leave her alone. I really have to pee.

I sneak out of the conference room and  _ gently _ shut the door behind me. After briefly considering setting up a noise trap to go off if she tries to leave while I’m gone, I head to the bathroom.

I manage to avoid looking in the bathroom mirror until I’m faced with it at the sink. My facial hair has gotten to the point where it’s no longer just-a-little-grown-in stubble-- it’s starting to become Hotch-in-Pakistan stubble. I really hope that Wright pulls something soon so we can catch him-- I need to go home, shave, rest.

“Reid.” Simmons’ voice comes from the bathroom entrance, and scares the hell out of me.

“What!” I squeak, turning the water off. God, why does he have to be built so  _ tall  _ and scary?

“We’ve got a missing persons report.” He starts, waiting for me to finish drying my hands. “It doesn’t fit the victimology profile at all, but it could still be relevant. Her name is Dina Hayes. She’s the detective in Atlanta that originally pieced together all of Wright’s killings.”

I freeze.

“She went missing 7 hours ago, they only noticed now because it was her day off. He could’ve taken a private aircraft and gotten from Atlanta to Seattle in five and a half hours at the shortest.” Simmons holds the door open for me, and we move through the station. Other B.A.U. agents come out from different corridors, joining us, as we head down the hall to meet Y/N.

“Do we know Hayes’ last seen?” Lewis asks, straight-to-the-point.

“No, but they found her personal copy of  _ The Parent and the Child _ missing from her home.” Rossi answers.

We turn the corner into the hallway where the conference room stems off from, and I freeze in place.

The door is open, and the couch is empty.

“Where’d she go?” Hotch says, more emotion in his voice than I’ve heard in a long time.  _ Disappointment. That’s what the emotion is. _

I turn to face him.

“I think I have an idea.”

-

She squares her body up, and with a strong kick, she knocks the door open.

_ “Robert Wright, FBI!” _ She yells _. _

The room is empty. Dusty, dark. The electric must have run out, and now that Dr. Wright’s retired, there’s no one to renew it. No one’s been here to clean, either, or even pack up, apparently. The receptionist desk is completely stocked. There’s a Mac PC sitting on the desk, complete with keyboard, mouse, and decorative mousepad. There’s a cup, one that looks like a child’s art class project with ‘happy mother’s day’ painted on it, filled with pens and pencils. Some of them are nice. None of the papers on the desk mean anything important, and there’s no signs of anyone moving anything on the desk. The waiting room’s couch and chairs look like they were old even before Dr. Wright retired, and the rest of the room is plain, unimportant. She moves into the corridor that leads upstairs to her office.

She sticks close to the wall, trying to avoid stepping on the spots that are more susceptible to creaking. Enough time has passed since she breached for him to prepare to face her-- that is, if he is upstairs, waiting.

The idea strikes her-- she looks at the steps in front of her, bending down to examine the dust.

The center of the steps have a boot outline on them.

Gun first, she continues up the stairs, faster, but by  _ no _ means any louder.

She peels into the first room she comes across. It’s a private bathroom. Nothing in it. She moves back into the hallway.

She takes careful, calculated steps-- she pays attention to the way she distributes her weight on her feet-- as she moves closer and closer to the last door. The last place Wright can be. The last place that she can check for him before there’s  _ nothing _ she can do to find him, before there’s nothing she can do to protect Dina Hayes.

She pauses at the door. She can’t hear anything inside. No breathing, no Wright-typical menacing dialogue.

No sounds of a head being cut off.

_ Now or never. _

In three movements disguised in one, she pushes the door open and aims front and center, only to drop her aim just as fast.

It’s a tragic, headless scene, that she’s  _ seen one too many fucking times. _

“Hello, Elizabeth.”

Before she can turn to face the voice, she’s forced to the floor after a dull pain hits her. Warmth starts to pour down her head. She pays attention to the way the dust feels while it fills her lungs, and she closes her eyes, letting the pain radiating from her skull take over.


	10. I Spit On Your Grave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary  
> Y/N survives.  
> \--  
> x

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNINGS:  
> This chapter is more explicit than any smut can be. This chapter contains a section that describes the reader dissociating as a sexual trauma happens to her. Please be extremely cautious as you read. I understand if you no longer want to read it, but maybe this will sweeten the deal: the person responsible for her pain gets what they deserve (ergo the title of this chapter). This will also be the the most intense this fic will ever get. I cannot promise that there won't be gruesome cases in the fic's future, as it is a fic about criminal minds, but this will be the height of graphic depictions of violence/sexual assault.
> 
> on a happier note-- i finished s15 last night. god damn did i cry my eyes out. very very happy with how it ended. <3
> 
> edit 9/14: hi frens im sorry. i started watchin another show so im less inspired but im getting back into the show and rewatching s1 to witness Baby Reid so see chp 10 soon

“Spit it out, then, Reid, we don’t have time!” Rossi orders.

“O-o _ kay! _ She-- she was saying that the location would  _ mean _ something specific to the unsub, she actually used the word ‘valuable,’ like the location he picked would have to complete a  _ story _ , uh,  _ his _ story! And then she said something like, ‘it’s all about his mom,’ uh…” I shake my head, trying to remember.

“Quick-- put yourself back in the scene.” J.J. says, assertive, but thoughtful. “What was it like in that conference room?”

_What_ _was it like?_

Her smell. Like fresh laundry and mint shampoo. She crinkled her face up as she thought, in the same way that a cute little kid would make a thinking face. She licked her lips while she was talking, right before she

“She-she said ‘it’s all about his mom, whether he knows it or not, so maybe it’s got to do with that’! And that’s when she froze up, like she was putting it together in her head.”

“Okay, then we need to think like her in order to finish that thought.” Rossi plans. “Do we have any of her case files from her first round with Wright?”

“No, I couldn’t get a copy of them in time.” Emily says, a tang of guilt in her voice. “I can try to get digital copies over to Garcia?” she offers.

“Try that.” Rossi points his finger at her, and Emily takes off. He turns to Lewis. “I know you took a close look at this on your way over here. What do you think?”

“Well, when I was reading her reports, she made it clear all throughout that he wasn’t self-aware about his negative mother complex.” Lewis remembers.

“Yeah, she said that on the plane, too.” Morgan leaps to add on.

“Yeah!” J.J. points. “She said, ‘he doesn’t blame his mother for all this, not even subconsciously. He just hates women that are more intelligent than him.’” J.J. says. I can see it on her face, that she’s trying to put something together.  _ Come on, what is it? What do you see? _

“Hanover.” Alvez’ smooth voice alludes.

“Explain.” Simmons nudges his partner.

“Detective Hanover was smarter than Wright, just like the rest of his victims,” he bounces his finger in the air as he talks, “but Hanover was a  _ detective _ . He went for educators and therapists before the incident in Atlanta. The change in victimology is important.”

“Yeah, he wanted Y/N.” I explain, not seeing his point. “He started looking for surrogates for Y/N instead of surrogates for his mother.”

“Did Hanover have any of Y/N’s files on the case? Or maybe even some of Dina Hayes’ files?” Alvez asks suddenly. I can tell that he only just realized why he went on the tangent in the first place.

“Most likely. It was a recent case handled by a female detective that ended up going awry. They’d keep up with each other on that kind of thing, sort of a professional courtesy.” Hotch thinks aloud.

“Then maybe he became self-aware.” Alvez looks at the group, expecting us to suddenly understand. When we don’t, he continues, circling his hands around each other as he builds onto the thought. “ _ And, _ if he became self-aware, then he knows what it’s really about. His mother.” Alvez explains.

“And that his mother refused to treat him-- he’s going to her old therapist’s office.” I make the connection.

“Let’s go.” Hotch orders.

* * *

“You know, you’re smart.”

His ugly voice had been pounding through her head for some time now, for a time period that she can’t identify, but she’s just now awake enough to comprehend what he’s been saying.

She writhes her body. Testing where the bindings are, finding any injuries. When she feels her knees rattle against the floor and the sides of her hands slap against her behind, she knows exactly how she’s been handled. She’s been pushed to her knees, and her ankles and wrists have been bound, just like last time. No searing injuries that she can feel--

_ Oh, God, nevermind. _

The pain in her head is atrocious. Her blood comes pounding into the wound over and over again, and each time it floods back in, she wants to scream. She can’t think, she can’t see worth anything.

She can’t fight.

“HEY!” Wright screams at her, his voice shaking and wet. “Pay attention to me.” He demands pathetically. He snaps a few times in front of her face for show, and it makes her ears ring. He notices the tinge of pain that must strike her face, because he then decides to  _ clap _ in front of her. With a lewd smirk, he stands back up straight.

“You’re  _ smart, _ ” he continues, spitting it out like he regrets saying it now that she’s offended him so deeply. “And I get that. I know I’m never going to be smarter than you.” He nods to himself, and turns to her, like he’s balling up courage. “I know that now. And I accept that.”

_ Good for you. _ She wants to talk back, like she did last time, but something stops her from doing it again. Darwinism stops her.

“But… I’m still stronger than you. I can still… hurt you.”

_ You’re not stronger than me. You had to tie me down to control me. _

He watches her. After she blinks away tears and pain, she does her best to watch him right back.

“I wonder what you’re thinking right now.”

_ That I’m gonna kill you. _

“You’re probably thinking, ‘this guy doesn’t fit my profile at all. He’s not  _ de-looou-sional. _ He’s more aggressive,  _ tac _ tile.” He mocks her poorly.

“‘I profiled that he’s  _ weak. _ That he’s filled with… with  _ self-pity. _ Well, guess what, agent? I don’t need to feel sorry for myself.” He leans down, looking her in the face. She does her best to keep her eyes open, defiantly trying to hold his stare. “No. I don’t. And I’m sure you’re thinking right now that he’s  _ all about domination,  _ about  _ taking power away from his victims. _ ” He quotes directly from her report on him. “And you’d be right.”

She’s sick of hearing his voice. She starts to fight again. Wiggling, thrusting, grunting, and then… whining. In defeat.  
“Yeah, heh. Try all you want. You know you’re not gettin’ out of those knots.” He walks over to the door. Then, she hears something familiar.

The sound of an iPhone recording beginning.

“I  _ know _ I’m getting out of here.” He shrugs cockily. He turns to face her, but not without making sure she’s visible on the recording. She hadn’t noticed the tripod sitting in front of the office door until just now. “You wanna know how I know that?”

She looks awful. She’s quite a bit distant from the phone, and her vision is blurry, but on the phone’s screen, she can see the purple shade starting to bloom under her eyes. It’d be a pretty color, if it wasn’t proof that he  _ hit  _ her while she was knocked out, too.

“I know that because  _ last time… _ ”

She shuts her eyes, and her breath is forced from her.

_ Don’t. _

“The rest of your unit didn’t make it in time… before I killed three of its agents.”

_ Stop. Please. Please, make this stop. _

“And left you with the survivor’s guilt.”

_ Fuck you. _

“And they  _ loved _ you, didn’t they?” He gets on a knee in front of her, resting his forearm on it. “Yeah. They did. I can see it, because right now, you’ve got a look on your face.”

She looks down, away from him. Away from all of this.

“Yeah… yeah, but-- but that look isn’t  _ familial  _ love, is it?” He asks, cocky.

_ What? No. _

“No. It’s l- _ ove _ love.” He teases.

“ _ How did you know about that? _ ” She spits.

“Ha- _ ha!” _ He squeals a laugh. “She  _ speaks! _ Guess I didn’t fuck you up  _ too _ bad, then.”

All she can hear is her own breath. Her own blood rushing through her ears, back and forth between them and the wound on her head.

“Yeah, you  _ really _ loved that Frankie guy, didn’t ya? What, you got a type for those lanky, string-bean lookin’ motherfuckers?” He looks at her with giddiness in his eyes. He has so much energy. “Not any  _ real _ men. None like me.”

_ What? _

_ That doesn’t fit the profile. _

“Well, none of that matters now, anyway. No matter how much you loved your little _eff-bee-eye_ family, they still couldn’t manage to save your friends. To save _you_ from seein’ all of that.” He presses his lips into a line, feigning pity. “And I know that I’ll make it outta here--” he huffs as he stands up, pushing on his knee, “-- because this new crew of yours doesn’t have anywhere _near_ that love, so I know that you definitely don’t have a chance this time around.” He says, so simply. 

So simply, like it’s not the most devastatingly true thing she’s heard in her life.

“That’s why I got that thing going.” He points to the phone. “I want to remember this.” He leans down, sudden, nearly brushing his nose against hers. She leans back and almost loses her balance trying to avoid him.

“I want to  _ remember _ finishing the job.”

He slowly walks around her, stopping behind her. Her eyes dart to the phone, wanting to see what he’s doing. She watches as his hand moves from his side, in towards the center of his body. 

Over his crotch.

“This has never been sexual for me...” His hand presses and softens against himself in a slow, disgusting manner. “... but you knew that already.” He takes a long pause, just standing, watching. Preparing… himself. “But I hate you… so goddamn much…“ He takes deep breaths between each phrase. “That my… what do you call it,  _ M.O.? _ Yeah. My M.O. changed.”

There’s no way that any of this is real, in any worldly parallel. This is the worst thing that can happen, the type of thing that only happens in the movies. This should be happening to some side character on Dexter, not to her.

“I’d watch your interviews on TV, on the news, you know. I even went on the internet looking for clips of old ones. Back when you were a detective. Just like Hanover.” A pause. “Just like Hayes.”

Her blood starts to boil. She doesn’t want to imagine that sick fuck sitting around watching her, touching himself the way he is right now. God, she wants to  _ rip  _ it off of him.

“And when you joined this new unit, I started to think… maybe I’ll go for this one, too. Just like last time.”

“No,” she begs, before she can stop herself. Vocalizing brings her back into the real world, and she recognizes that her shirt has been unbuttoned. She tries to put together when that happened, but none of this can make any sense to her. “Just me. Please. Leave them out of it.” She bargains.

“Woah, woah.” He laughs. “Don’t worry. I changed my mind.” He yanks her onto her feet with one arm, just to plant the other hand onto her front. “I just…” his hand lowers, reaching for her waistline. “Want…” He unbuttons the button. “You.”

She doesn’t have to look at the iPhone recording the scene to see what it must look like. It must look sad. The kind of sadness that you feel when someone brings up a tragic event, and the only way people can respond to it is with a cooing, “Oh, yeah, I heard about that, how awful.” The kind of sadness that helps you understand the fundamental, quintessential importance between sympathy and empathy.

Kind of like how you feel when you drive by a car wreck.

_ "Oh , how I’ve dreamed of this...” He touches that bruised-up girl with determination in his hands. _

Or when you see a school shooting on the news.

_ Once her pants are around her ankles, he drops her back to the floor, throwing her on her knees. I feel bad for her-- that’s going to bruise pretty bad. _

Or that hurricane back when she was a kid in Seattle. Her and her family had to drive to her grandmother’s in Montana. That was a fun weekend. She spent a lot of time alone with her grandma during that weekend, separate from the rest of the family, and she never knew why. Her grandmother was an… interesting character.

_ “Don’t act like you hate it so much.” _

_ The way she cries is so heartbreaking… I hope someone helps her. _

Her grandmother was named Dottie. Dottie was a hard-ass military brat. She had stories after stories, as all old people do, but the remarkable part about her was her unending hypervigilance. When Y/N was young, her grandmother would relentlessly teach her what to do if she ever got kidnapped. Her mother hated that she kept insisting on educating her about the evil of the world and how to fight it, but she let it go. She’d tell her, kick out the taillight and wave your hand like a sonofabitch! Remember how many times the car stops, count the stop signs! If you can see outside, look for landmarks! And always try to outsmart your captor!

_ “Your body betrays you, agent.” _

_ Always _ try to outsmart your captor.

She looks at the camera, and a terrible-- no,  _ wonderful--  _ smile splits her face in half.

“Wh-- what? What? What’r’e you smiling at?”

“It’s not betraying me, Robert.” She keeps her gaze with the camera.  _ If I’m gonna die like this, and he’s gonna get away, then I’m gonna ruin this memory for him. _ “I  _ like _ this.”

“What?” He whines. “Liar.” His hands slips out of her, and he steps back. “ _ Liar!” _

* * *

“Remember, everyone. Take it slow.”

Morgan’s voice comes in clear and stern as my grip on my revolver. I keep my pace smooth as I sneak in tandem with him up the staircase, careful not to block the view of the agent lined up behind me.

Then, Wright’s voice.  _ Liar! _ Together, we freeze, and I calculate whether or not we need to go loud. The quiet, delicate voice that follows, nearly unrecognizable as Y/N’s, tells me that we can keep moving silent.

_ She’s alive. _

“Entrance to the right. Reid, Alvez, clear it, quick and quiet.” Morgan whisper-orders.

The two of us get into breaching position, and after an exchange of nods, I open the door for Luke. He peels in, impossibly quiet, and then his aim falls. He talks into his shoulder radio.

“I’ve got Hayes’ body in here. Looks like it’s been moved into the bathroom. Once Wright and agent Y/L/N are secure, I want paramedics in here.”

He turns to me. We head back into the hall, filing in behind Morgan who waits at the office door.

He nods:  _ She’s in there. _

* * *

She can  _ feel _ the oxygen filling her lungs. She knows these are her last breaths-- they have to be, that’s the only explanation for why they feel so good.

“I’m not lying. My body isn’t betraying me.” She  _ locks _ her eyes with Wright now, finally looking away from the camera. She’s going to force him to stare her down as she forces herself to tell these awful lies she has planned if it’s the last thing she does. And she’s positive that it will be. 

He can’t look away from her. He just can’t, not when she  _ ruins _ all the fun for him, when she takes all the power away from him. She opens her mouth, ready to continue taunting him, but she stops,  _ just _ for a second.

She stops when she sees the movement of flashlights underneath the door. At least 4 of them.

And she just  _ laughs. _

“ _What? What is it? What’s so fuckin’ funny, you stupid whore?!”  
__  
_ “I’m-- I’m sorry, Robert.” She cuts off her laughter, feigning her apology. Euphoria fills her. He was _wrong_ that whole time. He thought they weren't coming to save her from the start. That they didn’t care about her. “It’s just-- I just _love_ to be tied up like this.” She continues on, the promise of a life after this event right outside the door giving her the courage to betray her disgust towards Wright. She doesn’t care how hard it is to be so vulgar for him-- he’s already lost. She gets to live. And she _gets to win._

“Shut up,” he mutters, before abruptly bending down to face her. Looking her directly in the eye, his hand dives back under her panties. One last attempt to break her.

“Yeah-- yeah.” She breathes. “Feel that? Feel that?” She laughs her disgust away.  _ I’m going to live. _ “That  _ wetness? _ That’s not fuckin’ betrayal.”

_ “Shut up!” _ He throws a tantrum, and his other hand shoots for her neck.

“ _ You wanna know what else isn’t betrayal?!”  _ She yells, queuing her team.

* * *

“MOVE IN!”

I’m not sure who says it, but I listen.

Morgan kicks the door in, settling his aim on the man’s head as he moves into the corner of the room, all while yelling unintelligibly angry orders at Wright. I follow suit, taking the other corner, and settle my aim on Wright’s chest. Alvez blocks the exit, his barrel trained on his head. Wright backs off of Y/N, raising his hands up more out of instinct than defensiveness. He looks truly shocked. He really thought he wasn’t going to get caught.

“ _ That’s  _ what _ , _ y _ ou stupid motherfucker! _ ” A voice comes from Y/N’s mouth that isn’t her own. Maniacal, almost-- but justifiably so.

Morgan takes the chance to move in and grab Wright’s wrists. Once the cuffs are on, Alvez and I get to work.

“Are you okay?”

“Y/N, are you  _ hurt? _ ”

I kneel behind Y/N, carefully cutting her bindings, and then I toss the rope remnants to the side. 

“Paramedics, move in, I need someone to come into the main office, I’ve got a large head wound and possible sexual assault injury.” I rattle off into my shoulder radio.

Keeping an eye on the injury on the back of her head, I take off my windbreaker and wrap her in it, and help her stand (“Can you stand? Are you okay?”). She ignores me, instead watching as Morgan nearly throws Wright to the floor as he pushes him off to the police car.

She’s still partially dissociated. Her skin is incredibly pale, she can’t look away from Wright, and she hasn’t noticed that her bottoms are still around her ankles. As light-handedly as I can, I kneel and pull them up for her. It must wake her from her spell, because she pushes my hands away, sparing a short look over her shoulder at me. I don’t take offense. 

Alvez removes the phone from the tripod and stops the recording. He leans into his radio to ask for CSI to bring evidence bags up, and all the while, the paramedics push through.

* * *

The paramedics take her out of the room, down the stairs, and outside, where the red-and-blue flashing lights cast a feeling of safety in Y/N’s chest.

None of this feels real, but in a much, much better way than a few minutes ago. She somehow is in the back of an ambulance, and then somehow, a weighted blanket is around her shoulders, and Alvez is talking at her, but she can’t hear him. She just smiles, and her head falls back, looking up at the ambulance’s roof. The people around her tense up as she falls back, she can tell, but she doesn’t care. She’s safe. She’s alive. She won.

So, she doesn’t mind when her body urges her to rest, and she allows her eyes to close, and for her world to go dark.

* * *

~

“But he’ll receive death penalty, yes?”

The paralegal on the other end huffs a breath.

“Doctor, I’m going to have to claim every favor and pull every string to get him tried in his home state as opposed to Washington.”

“Then do it.”

* * *

~

_ Ah, a hospital. Okay. _

“Doctor, she’s up!” Prentiss yells out towards the corridor. She hurries over to the hospital bed and leans over her. “Hey! Hey… you’re okay, you’re safe.”

“Is he dead?” She hears her own voice, but doesn’t remember moving her mouth.

“What?”

“Is Wright dead?”

Prentiss looks over her shoulder, and Y/N’s eyes follow her gaze. She can’t make out the tall, thin brunette at the door, but whoever it is, they nod.

Emily turns back to face Y/N.

“No.” She says, honestly. “But he will be soon.”


	11. Pug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spencer comforts Y/N.  
> \--  
> Spencer assumes that the reason you don’t tell him to shut up when he goes off talking about some statistics is because you’re nice. That’s definitely part of it, but he’s trained himself to believe that no one could ever enjoy his lectures.

“How’re you feeling, agent?”

The doctor doesn’t ask her. He says something to her, and it sounds like a question, but it’s not a question. It’s an instinct. She doesn’t mind, though-- she understands why he doesn’t care, and she doesn’t blame him. She does smirk a little, though, when the doctor barely notices that she doesn’t bother to answer.

“We’ve finished running your tests.” He starts, his voice hopeful. She joins him in that feeling. “After a few passes, we’re confident that… what you described to us is as far as it went.” He finishes, delicately.

“So you’re saying he didn’t rape me.” She responds bluntly.

The doctor blinks slowly and clicks his tongue.

“Yes, agent.” He apologizes. “He did not rape you.”

“Thank you.” She sighs. She would have felt guilty about forcing him to be direct, but she’s too relieved. Also, she doesn’t give a shit, she’s the one  _ who wasn’t sure if I got raped or not. _ Her memory is spotty around all of it, and all she wanted was to hear someone tell her that she didn’t miss anything important while she was checked out. 

If Wright had taken someone else, and she was looking at it from the outside, perhaps as an agent, or even as a doctor of psychology, she’d recognize her memory loss as what it is: dissociation, an instinct similar to fight or flight where the mind and body separate during trauma to protect the mind from the reality of what is happening to the body. But, because dissociation is a powerful, powerful thing (and in this instance, works  _ very _ well), she  _ can’t _ see what it is. Because she’s still checked out.

“For the other injuries,” he flips a page over in his packet, “you’re expected to make a full recovery within a few months. You’ll undoubtedly experience migraines and vertigo-like symptoms. Light sensitivity, dizziness, nausea. It should fade away, but if it lasts longer than the flesh wound does, call me.” He flips the page back over and hands her the packet.

“Any medications I’m supposed to be taking?”

“Yes.” He gestures to the packet, and when she looks down, she sees the prescription notes on the front page. “You’ve got a prescription for a higher dose of ibuprofen than what’s available over-the-counter, and a vertigo combatant. If you want something for sleeping issues, give me a call, and I can get them to you without an office visit.”

“Wonderful.” She concludes.

“I’ll have a nurse bring your things in. You’re good to go home.”

~

“ _ There _ she is!”

Morgan’s stupidly perfect smile is the first thing she sees as she walks into the waiting room. Then, at  _ least _ a dozen people rise, and she recognizes them all right away as the rest of the unit. 

_ Her _ unit.

“Oh, my God, you guys…” She says with a level of bashfulness she rarely allows herself.

“Are you  _ kidding _ ? Did you think we wouldn’t show up?” Emily says, incredulously.

A bouquet of flowers makes their way into her arms just before Morgan wraps her up tight. It’s the best hug she’s had in a long time.

“I…” She tries to explain how grateful, how warm she feels, but she can’t. 

“Get used to the love.” Rossi appears, and before she can stop it, he’s kissing her cheeks.

“Oh, I’ll take the love any day,” she starts, finally freeing herself of Rossi’s grandfatherly grasp. “It’s the dozen people in the hospital room here for  _ me _ that I have to get used to.”

“That’s part of the love.” Alvez walks up.

“Oh, Luke,” she sighs, recalling that when Alvez came into that office, she finally let herself believe that she really was being saved. “Thank you.” She says into his shoulder, enjoying the way that his leather jacket smells. “And thank  _ you.” _ She says, pointedly looking at Morgan.

“You already know what we’re gonna say.” Morgan responds.

“And I don’t care.” She smiles, stepping back from Alvez. “I still have one more to thank-- where’s 187?”

A few of the agents turn towards the foyer, and through the mini-crowd, she sees him. His hands are in his pockets, and he’s slouching like a 90’s cartoon character. He turns idly, and double-takes as he sees everyone looking his way. He gives a stupid, hesitant little wave, smiling at Y/N.

She feels her cheeks bunch up, nearly shutting her eyes, as she pushes through to get to him. And he can’t help but show his teeth right back as he walks through the doors towards her.

“Don’t thank me,” he preemptively says, already accepting her hug.

“Thank you,” she huffs into his shoulder, pushing him back a few steps.

“Ah,” he surrenders.

She can’t hold back the laughter that bubbles up from her chest, and she doesn’t want to, anyway. She sways their hug back and forth, letting herself feel some positive physical touch. When she finally steps back and meets eyes with Spence, though, she knows what’s going to come next. Irrepressible eye contact as their two smiles fade, but never completely dissipate. Then, they’d hesitantly step away from each other, now overcome with the sudden need to fill their hands with  _ something _ . Those somethings will end up being the knot of his own tie as he adjusts it, and the seam of her own blazer as she pulls it straight. 

She’s right; all of what she expects to happen, happens. However, she doesn’t expect it to end with both of them turning and walking into the waiting room, only to be faced with the B.A.U. trying to act like they hadn’t just seen something they perceived as scandalous. She quickens her step and joins the group before Spencer does, avoiding having to acknowledge their coworkers gossipy behavior (and its implications) in front of him.

“Y/N.” Hotch grabs her attention. “You’re going to take at  _ least _ a week off. It’s not up for negotiation.” He points an authoritative finger.

“You don’t have to order  _ me _ , boss, I was already planning on it.” She says, already thinking about how she’ll spend her time off. She doesn’t think about that too long, though, because subconsciously she knows that the reality of her spring break will be therapeutic in nature, and not the fun kind.

“I’m glad to hear that.” He nearly smiles. “I’m just used to having to convince these guys to take time off, even if something…” he gestures to her briefly, “awful happens to them in the field.”

“Well,” she starts, smiling a little. “None of these guys have had a video recorded of them  _ going through _ something awful in the field.” She jokes.

Hotch’s posture relaxes, which, in his world, means the opposite of what it means for anyone else. He’s uncomfortable. In fact, most of the team is uncomfortable. For some reason, too, some of the members are sneaking glances at Reid, who looks at the floor silently. That’s when she remembers what happens in that video, and understands their response.

“Once CSI is done with it, you get to decide what happens with that footage.” Simmons sets his hand on the back of her upper arm, giving her a gentle squeeze.  _ He knows. That means everyone knows. Did they see it? _

“It’s-- I’m fine. It’s fine.” She assures. “I was just trying to… make a joke, I guess.”

The mention of anything jovial gives the team an out, and the tension dissipates. Garcia clicks up to her, holding a little bear in her hand.

“ _ That _ is for  _ you. _ ” She tucks the stuffed animal between Y/N’s chest and the bouquet Morgan gave to her. “And so is  _ this.” _ She warns, before squeezing the death out of her.

“Mm, thank you.” she says in a tone that she doesn’t intend to be groaning, but her lungs are being hugged, too. “But I’m starting to get sick of the pity fest. Who’s taking me home?”

“I can.” Spencer offers, softly. “I-if that’s okay.”

“Sure, but I’m a little nervous at the prospect of you driving,” she jests, trying to distract herself from how  _ sweet _ Reid is, “It was clear on the road trip back to Quantico that you hadn’t driven in a long time.” She starts for the parking lot.

“You got him to  _ drive?”  _ Tara asks, surprised.

“With enough psychological torture, yes.” She calls over her shoulder.

“I’m most definitely not driving, I’m just accompanying you.” He quips, just to her.

“Oh,  _ what _ a gentleman.” She rolls her eyes and shoulder-checks him.

* * *

God, she really knows how to use her center of gravity.

“Drama queen.” She accuses, looking me up and down after I nearly fall over.

“That wasn't for show, you really got me!” I squeak in laughter.

“And I’d do it again.” She makes a faux-fierce expression, showing me her fists.

Entertained, I follow behind her as she steps down onto the street. Once opening the door for her, and then getting in the car myself, I can’t think of a response.

Maybe that’s okay, though. I'm not sure if continuing to joke back and forth with her is good or bad for her mental health. One would think that the best way to help her heal is to address the trauma directly, but it’s only been hours since, and the first part of trauma recovery is improving quality of life by stabilizing moods and promoting safe behavior. And although screwing around seems like promoting safe behavior, I just don’t know how.

I do know how to comfort someone, though.

“What you did was smart.” I break the silence.

“What’re you talking about?” She starts the car, casually looking over her shoulder as she pulls out of the parking space.

“What you said. To him.” I clarify.

She tenses a little.

“‘S just survival.” She pushes it off.

“It’s not survival to go against what your body is telling you to outsmart who’s hurting you.” I keep talking. She involuntarily cringes at the word ‘body.’ Why am I still insisting on talking about this?

“So you saw the video.” She readjusts her grip on the steering wheel, trying to keep composed. It doesn’t work.

“J-just what… what we had to.”  _ We.  _ Fuck!

“They saw it, too?”

“The last thing we saw was--”

“ _ Don’t.” _ She barks. “Don’t…” she repeats, much softer this time. “Tell me.”

15 years of handling victims of violent crimes, and when it counts most, you lose all your grace.

“He’s on death row.” I offer. It’s all I  _ can _ offer. But it won’t be enough, not if my experience speaks to every experience.

“He’ll be on it for years.” She says, her voice much stronger than it was just a moment ago. She might be starting to dissociate again.

“I expedited the process. His execution is in, uh…” I check my watch before I can process how little the exact timing matters. “70 hours and 23 minutes.”

She doesn’t say anything, and I don’t look at her. I can’t. I know what the expression on her face will be. It’ll be the remnants of eyes rolled, or a look of distaste, one that says,  _ how can you be so clueless? _ Idiot. You  _ idiot. _ Open up your brain. The answers on how to handle this are  _ in _ there. But you can’t, can’t you? It’s impossible. Another diagnosis that you can’t prevent, doctor, even if you’re ‘barely on the spectrum anymore.’ Look at her. Look at the expression you caused. You deserve it.

She doesn’t look hurt. At least, not hurt by me. She looks… haunted. Pale, like she sees something she knows she isn’t supposed to.

And I think I know what she’s seeing.

“Spencer?” She whines.

“Yes?”

“Are you still there for me?” She sniffs. I want to tell her yes, but I know she has more to say. “Are you still there for me, like you said earlier? When you said the contract goes both ways?”

“ _ Yes _ .”

Her staccato breath is so hard to listen to, and I don’t know how to calm it.

_ Well, what’d she do for you? _

I reach over--  _ so  _ slowly, because she may have an extremely adverse response to touch right now-- and touch the spot that Simmons touched earlier, curling my hand around her upper arm. When she doesn’t jump or push me away, I stroke my thumb up and down.

“ _ I’ve got you.” _ I barely hear the words myself.

She nods, hearing me. She wipes her face, takes a deep breath. Adjusts her grip.

“Okay.”

* * *

_ I hope you’ve always got me, Spence. _

* * *

She presses the engine button, and her arms fall to her lap as the headlights cast onto her apartment building.

“Thank you.” She says, but it’s less out of obligation and more out of genuine gratefulness.

“Of course,” I mutter.

She laughs a little bit. I’m not going to question it, she deserves whatever laughter she can get.

“Um,” She laughs one more solemn laugh, before continuing, “I’m definitely going to ask you to stay.”

“Okay.” I laugh, too. Suddenly I understand why people laugh when they’re nervous.

“Unless--”

“No, no--”

“It’s-- is it-- is it weird--”

“No, not at all--”

“Okay.” She laughs again.

“Okay.”

She looks at me. I struggle to look back.

“Really, Y/N, I’m comfortable.” Wow, you really can’t sound any more convincing? “On cases, I’m the one that’s supposed to go and extract any victims of torture or sexual assault once we’ve detained the unsub if there isn’t another woman available. I’m… not a threat to them, and it’s supposed to be refreshing, t-that I’m, uh, there.”

“Yeah.” She pats my leg. I jump. “Non-threatening.” Even if she’s laughing at my expense, I’m still not going to question it. I’m used to it, and I know that she’s different. We get out of the car and head up.

* * *

“Oh, Maggot, would you--”

Maggot  _ immediately _ starts screaming at Reid’s presence as he closes the door behind him. He jumps back, pressing himself up against the door, as he makes terrified and direct eye contact with the mutt.

“She won’t hurt you, relax.” She briefly touches Reid’s arm, trying not to laugh at his disposition. He jumps again, and she raises her hands, feigning defensiveness.

“Sorry, it’s just-- dogs.” Reid clears his throat.

“You mean,  _ chihuahua mixes?” _ She pokes at him as she heads over to her kitchen.

“They call it, uh, the Reid effect.” He mocks Morgan the best he can. “Happens around small children and dogs.”

“What was  _ that?”  _ She gestures to his poor impersonation.

“Derek.”

She laughs a real, genuine laugh as she pulls a dark green bottle from the fridge.

“Right,” she concedes, “no, that was definitely Derek.”

She collapses onto her couch, and the little dog scampers up to her feet and scratches at her briefly. She bends down and, with one hand, scoops her up and sets her down on the cushion next to her. The rat gets to work on pulling a pillow out of its place and onto its side so she can hop on top of it and lay down. All the while, Reid stands near the door.

“I’m sorry, are you on guard duty or are you providing me company?”

He presses his lips into a line and ‘smiles’ (Reid smile number one), and heads over to her. When he reaches the little nest around the TV, he decides to take the chair adjacent to the couch, not wanting to disrupt the very ugly princess sitting on her pillow throne next to Y/N. She watches him waddle around, all gangly and anxious, while nursing a drink.

* * *

I shouldn’t have let her have alcohol. It’s not good that she’s turning to it so soon after what happened. This can become a habit. It’s also a bit disconcerting that the first time I’ve seen her place, she has a bottle in her hand.

“What?” I ask, as she snorts again, looking at the TV but not watching it.

“Nothing, it’s just…” She waves it off.

“Me?”

“Yeah!” She smiles at me. I wonder if she had braces as a kid. “It’s like you’ve never been inside anyone’s home except your own.”

I take that chance to relax, to look around. Her place is plain. Comfortable, but plain. Each item inside has its own artistic or decorative value by itself, but together, none of it makes sense. It must’ve been the only things she could get her hands on. Money, maybe? She  _ did _ spend a lot of money on that car.

“I’m not an interior designer like you.” She catches a most likely judgemental look on my face.

“It’s-- it’s not  _ that. _ It’s just…” I don’t know how to finish the sentence. Every outcome of it will most likely be offensive. “Everything is… cheap. You should treat yourself a bit better.”

“Oh, I do. I just treat myself where it counts.” She says. It comes off a bit more suggestive than I hope she intends. She takes a sip, and continues. “My TV, for example.” She gestures, and I look back to it. “Wide. Thin. Curved. I put money into this as opposed to the couch because, as long as the TV’s nice, I’ll enjoy myself no matter what I’m sitting on.” She looks around, looking for the next thing to explain. Her eyes fall on an ajar door entering another room. The room inside is dark, with a pale blue light casting view over whatever’s inside. I can make out a small nightstand. “My bed is the nicest thing I own. Sleep Number. The one with the remote? Yeah. I’m proud of that purchase.” She continues to look around, and then settles on the pet. “Then, this little lady. I got a rescue instead of a purebred because, no matter what, it’s gonna cuddle up to me at night.”

“Some breeds are more affectionate than others.”

“Oh, yeah?” She sits back, showing that it’s my turn to talk.  _ Easy. _

“S-sure. Dogs are separated into groups based off of the task that they’re bred to perform, for e-example, your dog is… I think, um, a chihuahua mixed with…” Wow, what the fuck is that thing? “I think maybe a chinese crested?” She giggles uncontrollably, and so I push through. “Which--w-which are both toy breeds, and toy breeds are made to accompany their owners, and nothing else. They’re the ‘lap dogs’ or ‘purse dogs.’ Then, there’s the herding group, which is made to  _ herd, _ as you know, and for that reason, they have an extremely high drive to both exercise and perform a task, but not necessarily one to please their owners, so the owner has to be intelligent and willing to have a herding dog.” My mouth starts moving before I can stop it. She settles further into the corner of her couch, now turned towards me, as she nurses her drink. Attentive. “Then there’s the working group, those are your mastiffs, Rottweilers, and other big, muscly beasts. They’re made to either pull carts, sit and guard, or watch your children as you’re away at work. I… don’t like that group.”

“Because they weigh less than you and they can still rip you apart?”

“Oh, you think I weigh less than them?” I nearly joke. She finds it  _ hilarious. _ “Yes, I dislike them because they are…  _ scary. _ ”

She tilts her head, letting it rest on the back cushion.

“What else are you scared of?”

“Well,” I think, looking at her floor. “Germs. Driving. Elevators.” Other things that people use every day that have frighteningly death statistics. “Uh, the dark.”

“Eh!” She exclaims. “Stop right there! The  _ dark?” _

“Yes!” I exclaim, ready to defend myself on this very formidable fear.

“Aren’t you 40 years old?!”

“38, but--”

“Oh,  _ oh, _ 38\. Forgive me. Then your  _ fear of the dark _ is  _ completely _ understandable!”

“Alright! Alright,” I stick my hands up, begging. “My apologies for fearing the one thing that can protect anything that wants to kill you-- m-my apologies for having  _ an instinct. _ ”

“Okay, now I feel bad.” She  _ giggles, _ reeling back into her couch. Her feet do this cute thing, almost like a little kick. Something warm fills my chest as she settles her laughter, now watching me.

“Hey, Spence.” She says, her tone one that I’ve never heard before. Innocent.

“Yes?”

“Keep talking about dogs.” She orders, but a sensitivity in her tone says that she’s really asking. She tilts her head again, resting her head against the couch. Her shirt collar moved a little when she was laughing earlier, and now, when she stretches and relaxes, her clavicle is exposed. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, her lips, parted.

She is  _ tantalizing _ .

“U-uh.” My eyes search in front of me as I try to remember where I left off. “Well, the other groups are, uh, hunting dogs, or  _ hounds, _ then the sporting group, then terriers, and non-sporting. The AKC acknowledges 195 dog breeds, but there are just over 350 known to man. The  _ oldest _ breed is the Basenji, which is a member of the hunting group.” 

I look over to her, just for a moment. This is usually the point where the other person starts to show disinterest. But she keeps her eyes with me, more focused than I’ve seen her at work. But it’s a different kind of focus. Like the focus she had when I gave her advice on the road trip. This is… comforting her. This is bringing her peace.

“T-h-then there’s the Akita, which has been believed to pre-date the Basenji nearly 8,000 years, but because of inaccuracies in the testing, they can’t be sure, so the Akita remains a footnote in articles about ancient breeds. After that is the Afgan Hound, the Alaskan Malamute, the Samoyed, the Saluki, the Chinese Shar-Pei, and then the Chow Chow.”

“I thought pugs were on the list.” She says, dreamily.

“They are about 2,000 years old, so, their breed appears around the same time that the rest of the non-ancient breeds do.” I clear my throat.

She keeps her gaze on me. I manage to match her.

“I’m gonna sleep.” She retires suddenly, starting to get up. “Will you stay?”

“I-if… you want me to.”

“That’d be nice.” I watch her turn around and head towards her bedroom.

“I might be gone in the morning when you wake up. I’ll have to go into work.” I warn her.

“Oh,” she sighs, “at least leave me a little note telling me how you had a good time last night, won’t you?” She jokes, pushing open the door with the rich, blue lighting behind it. She almost shuts it, but stops herself, and turns towards me again.

“Spencer… thank you.”

“For… for what?”

She rests her head against the door.

“For talking to me. Your voice just… calms me down.”

I can’t respond. My breath catches in my chest. She  _ likes _ my lectures.

“Good night, Spence.”

“Good night, Y/N.”

I find myself staring at her bedroom door long after it’s been shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly i hated this chapter it felt lazy and unplanned. hopefully yall liked it and it like made sense to you because i'm not sure on this one. i knew what was going to happen before this chapter and what's going to happen after but i wasn't sure how i was going to get there and how both of our characters here were going to feel so. idk. im not proud of this. hopefully it works for you guys.  
> fun stuff is planned to be coming soon. maybe even next chapter.


	12. Leather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary  
> Y/N sees things. Reid teaches her how to tan leather.  
> \--  
> x

She’s almost on my lap.

I can’t move, I can’t  _ breathe _ . I have to be careful, or I’ll ruin this for both of us. I just have to trust her, to let her guide us both into this. If not, it’ll throw away all of the progress we’ve made, and we’ll never see each other again. 

Oh, my God, oh my God, oh my God,

Maggot raises its tiny, bony paw, and places it on my thigh.

_ Yes!  _ Finally!

“C’mon, it’s okay.” I whisper down to it, trying to convince it to crawl further into my lap, while at the same time trying to convince myself to want that.

She clambers onto my lap and collapses into it, a pile of bones and fur tufts. Feeling like I’ve earned it, I allow myself a good, deep sigh as she settles on me, and my head falls back against the couch. I had nothing else to do once Y/N retired for the night, so I looked over to Maggot, and thought, if I plan to sleep here, I need to ensure that she will not suddenly turn on me and attack me in my sleep. So, I took to gaining her trust by first, moving off of the chair and onto the floor, and then scooting closer to her, and then eventually getting on the same couch, just on the opposite side. After that, it was her turn to do the work, and she did. Over the course of an hour, she adopted and employed a cycle of movements. First, she would stand up, then flounder a little closer to me, and then sleep for a little bit. Then, she’d rise again just to squirm a little closer, and the cycle repeated until just now, when she asked me if she could sit on my lap with her gentle touch. And it was glorious.

Victory is so sweet. And small, and closely resembles a capybara mixed with a feral sphynx cat. And is jabbing one of its’ bone-spear elbows in my balls.

“Okay, I’m just gonna--” I warn her, reaching for her little leg. She looks up at me with wildfire in her eyes. I set my hand back down, not one to bother or question her desires.

Now I need to figure out how I’m going to fall asleep sitting up.

* * *

~

“Did you sleep?”

She startles Spence, who nearly tosses Maggot off of his lap from jumping so high.

“G-uh, was  _ about _ to,” he says, in that groggy morning voice.

“Mm, I’m sorry.” She hums. She would’ve cared more about that gorgeous voice of his if she wasn’t also just waking up. “She keep you up?”

* * *

Which  _ she _ do you mean?

“Yes.”

* * *

“Well, looks like it was worth it.” She nods to the dog, who has since settled from the earlier disturbance. 

When Spencer barely moves or responds, and instead looks down at the dog, and back up at Y/N, pleading for her help, Y/N halts her coffee-making to go and rescue him. She picks up the pup, who screams in fearless defensiveness at first (startling Spencer greatly) but quickly settles once she realizes it’s her owner that’s handling her. Y/N doesn’t flinch at her sudden yapping and snarling. She’s used to it.

“Thank you.” Spencer sighs, taking the opportunity to finally stretch out his spindling legs. He jumps up, groaning shamelessly, and extends his arms up to the ceiling. Y/ N catches sight of the small of his back.  _ He’s so pale. _

“What time is it?” She asks, pushing herself away from her thoughts as she starts to take out some cooking utensils.

“It  _ is… _ ” he checks his watch, “ _ woah _ , 6:30. Why didn’t you sleep in?” He clears his throat. “They’re not gonna let you work.” He rubs the sleep away, continuing to display his precious habit of scrunching up his  _ entire _ face, not just his eyes, as he does so.

“You of all people should know how internal clocks work.” The stove hisses, clicks, and then  _ whoosh _ es as a flame emerges from underneath the pan that she sets on the iron frame.

“The circadian rhythm.” He starts, trampling over to the kitchen island. “Specifically, the sleep-wake cycle. A certain amount of time will pass between each sleep duration unless otherwise disturbed.” He sits down. She’s used to hearing him do his little genius thing in a voice that’s more energetic and confident, so to hear him do it in a voice that’s just a little slower, a little more gravelly, it definitely helps wake her up.

“As usual,” she sighs, “you know the information, but seem not to know how to apply it.”

* * *

It’s a bit early in the morning for you to force me to face my biggest flaw, don't you think?

* * *

She continues on silently with breakfast. Egg, sausage, and bacon skillet. Making breakfast has always been a pleasurable part of her day; a constant of good smell and good taste. When she was young, she didn’t sit down in the mornings to eat with her family, so in her adulthood, she filled that hole with her morning ritual: making above-human-grade food to be fed to her and her pup.

“You’re going to eat the same thing?”

“ _ We _ are, yes.” She portions out the skillet onto three dishes-- two human, one canine.

“Is that… healthy? For it?”

“It  _ is _ healthy for  _ her, _ yes.” She corrects him again. “You really don’t like dogs, huh? You get bit or something?”

“No, nothing like that.” He nods a thank-you as the food is slid in front of him. “Just… they’re unpredictable.”

“Did you just tell me that you don’t like dogs because you can’t profile them?”

He ignores the implied insult, instead filling his mouth with food.

“‘M not a fan of cats, either.”

“Why’s that?” She sets Maggot’s dish down on the ground, where Maggot makes horrible squelching sounds as she eats.

“Even more unpredictable. Too human-like.” He chews, starting to wake up.

“There’s something to be said there, about profiling and humanity. But I’m too tired to figure out what it is.” She points at him with her fork. “But, I think you’re just saying that.” She says, eating now, too. “I think the claws are what do it for you.”

“Fairly so, don’t you think?”

“Mm.” She hums, suspicious, but allowing him his belief regardless.

Y/N finishes her breakfast before Spencer does, so she goes to refill his coffee. Once she starts to pour it in, he stutters.

“Oh, I-I’ve got to head home and get ready, but, really, I appreciate it, thank you...” He mutters as she pours.

“Oh.” She looks at him, zoned out. She hadn’t yet processed that this morning would have to end eventually. Sharing this very domestic moment with him filled a hole she didn’t know she had until now.

“Y/N,” he says, tipping the coffee pot back before it overfills his mug.

“Oh,” she gasps, physically checking back in.

“It’s okay,” He sets the pot down.

“Oh, it’ll leave a stain,” she busies herself with returning the pot to the machine, while Spencer adjusts his seating and clears his throat.

“Um-- well, sorry--” she gestures back to the pot, apologizing for that whole mess, before continuing. “But, um… Thank you. For staying last night. I really appreciate it. You didn’t have to do that.”

“It’s no problem. You needed some help, and… that’s the deal. I plan to uphold it.” He replies, his eyebrows tipping upward in a devastatingly precious manner.

She realizes she must be looking at him too long when his eyes dart away for just a moment.

“Ha, well. I promise you, I won’t require any more of your help while I’m on my break.” She guides him over to her door. He follows, his messenger bag now in tow, but he presses his hand gently against the door when she goes to open it. It’s an authoritative gesture that has her freezing up.

“If you need me…  _ please. _ Just call.” His eyes dash between hers. “It’s not a burden.”

“Okay,” she breathes.

He loosens up then, licking his lips, and steps back from the door.

“I’ll talk to you soon, okay?” He says, but his tone isn’t a questioning one.

She gives him a quiet nod, and then opens the door for him.

“Bye, Spencer.”

~

“Hey, Siri. Google ‘rambutan.’”

Earlier in the morning, after showering and getting ready for the day, she was on her phone and came across a self-care list online that had a particularly intriguing task on it. It said, ‘treat yourself to a high-end grocery store trip’. The concept made her laugh.  _ The fuck is a high-end grocery store trip? _ When she read the description further, she assumed that she must’ve gotten onto some mom website, because the upperclassman English that the article used was not an English she was familiar with.  _ ‘Try out the organic grocery store near you and buy things you’ve never cooked with before!’ Yeah, the English that  _ I _ know is more like, ‘have you ordered from  _ this  _ chinese place yet?’ _

But, here she was regardless, looking at the strangest fruit she’s ever seen, the  _ rambutan _ , in a fancy grocery store that employs a piano player at its entrance. The fruit was about the size of a strawberry, and somewhat resembled one, too, except this one was straight from Chernobyl. Where seeds would be on a regular, Christian strawberry, instead were long, green, hairlike tendrils on this abomination.

When her phone gives her search results that describe the Lovecraftian fruit’s taste as acceptable, she prepares a bag and twist tie to grab some. However, once it’s time to actually  _ touch _ it, she just can't do it. She can see the tendrils wrapping around and taking her fingers off the second she tries to grab one. To avoid suspicion from the non-imaginative strangers around her, she walks a few steps forward and bags some plums instead.

She walks around the store a little longer, picking things off of the shelves based off of a recipe she came across online, until she decides it’s time to stop  _ buying things you’ve never cooked with before _ . It was a good idea, to go and try new things, but she’s looking down at her cart and she can’t see a single thing that she recognizes. So, she heads over to the deli.

And the man behind the counter is Robert Wright.

Her body feels like it isn’t hers, or it’s in someone else’s control and the person in control doesn’t intend on letting her go anywhere.

_ “Oh, how I’ve dreamed of this…” _ His voice comes from all around her, eliminating her sense of directional hearing entirely. She has no time to process what to do next before Wright starts to crack a terrible smile that splits his face in half. He raises his cleaver.

_ “Don’t act like you hate it so much.” _

The cleaver comes down, and before she can stop him, he decapitates another woman. The head tumbles down the curved glass of the meat counter and lands at her feet.

And the face on the head is her own.

_ “Your body betrays you, agent.” _

“It’s not betrayal.” She insists.

_ “Oh, yeah? You’re really wet,  _ all _ for me?” _

She knows that she  _ has  _ to say yes, she  _ has  _ to lie, in order to survive. But she can’t say it.  _ Not again. _

_ ”You take me so well.” _

“Miss?”

The woman behind the counter rouses Y/N from her hallucination, but the nightmare doesn’t end. She doesn’t have a reassuring, ‘ _ don’t worry, it was just a dream _ ’ to return to, because she's alone, and it  _ isn’t _ just a dream. It’s real. It’s real enough to still be affecting her days after it happened.

She says something akin to an apology to the butcher before rushing away. She’s just barely conscious enough to take her cart with her as she speedwalks to the bathroom. Her eyes settle on a door leading to a single-stall bathroom, and she thanks God for the privacy while she parks her cart by the door.

While dribbling cold water on her face, she tries to recall what happened. She walked up to the deli counter, and there was a  _ man _ behind the counter, not a woman. And he looked like Wright, and then he  _ was  _ Wright. And he started talking to her, saying the same things that he said to her when they were in his mom’s office.

Except the last thing.  _ ‘You take me so well.’ _ He didn’t say that to her.

Right?

Oh, no.

~

“Agent Y/L/N. You’ve been ordered to take at least a week off.”

Anderson steps in front of the bullpen doors.

“I’m  _ just _ here to pick up my laptop, Anderson. Stand down.” She gives a little salute.

After a long look of affectionate disdain, Anderson steps aside, holding the door open for her.

“At ease.” She pokes again, and he shoots her a smile.

She did leave her laptop at work, but she always does. She has her own personal computer at home that works a lot faster than the FBI-issued Macbook. She wanted to come in to see the team-- no,  _ my team-- _ again. When they literally welcomed her back with open arms after she checked out of the hospital, she felt a feeling that she’s been chasing ever since it happened. It was a sense of belonging that she was unfamiliar with. Sure, she loves her family, and although her father was distant, he still provided for every little ambition she had as a kid, and it’s always been clear that he loves her. But when her classmates (and then, later in life, her coworkers) would imply that their family is the most important thing to them, she couldn’t relate. She values herself and her friends over her family, and she doesn’t feel evil for it, or even like it’s wrong in any way. Something about the B.A.U., though, made her understand what that unconditional, unearned love felt like.

So she’s definitely disappointed to find the bullpen empty.

“Anderson?” She calls, and finds him waiting right behind her. “Jesus!-- what are you doing?”

“Making sure you’re not trying to do any work.”

“I-- where’s the team right now?” She says, setting her purse down for the moment.

“They’re in Las Vegas. They left a few hours ago.”

She picks up her laptop.

“Mm. Okay.”

She looks around idly at her desk, trying to make up a reason to snoop around her coworkers desks for any clues on the case they took without her.

“I-- I had a little USB flash drive plugged into this laptop-- did you see it, maybe?” She looks at him again.

“No. What was on it?”

“Paperwork on Wright… maybe someone else took it, wanted to finish the work for me.” She makes up, impressed with herself on how believable it is. “I’m gonna look around.”

Anderson gives a nod and finally leaves her to breathe and snoop in peace.

First, Lewis’ desk. Professionally, albeit sadly, plain. Instead of decor or photos, she had accolades and case files. She ruffles the desk up as if looking for something, but makes sure to return everything where it was, before she moves over to Alvez’s desk. She smiles at the slightly-oversized German Shepherd statue he has, and notices that it has a tiny pink ribbon tied around its neck--  _ Garcia, probably.  _ Simmons has family photos, as well as J.J. and Morgan, and Y/N helplessly swoons at all of their precious children in the frames. Prentiss’s desk was  _ covered _ in case files; Y/N heard that she was unit chief while Hotch was in witsec, and that even when Hotch took back the official title, she still followed his shadow, and that he let her. Y/N wonders shortly why she doesn’t have her own office.

She finally crosses over to the desk she’s been avoiding. She doesn’t want to invade his privacy, of course.

But it’s too tempting.

His desk is populated, even more than Garcia’s. He also has one of the largest desks of the bullpen, with the long part of its L-shape extending farther than even Hotch would need. The length of it is lined in books, all thick, all leather, all uninteresting in title. He also has an additional filing cabinet tucked underneath the desk, probably one that he bought on his own. He doesn’t like digital, she remembers. It confuses her, long enough for her to zone out from her faux-USB-drive-searching, that a geek like him isn’t down with technology. Then, she remembers the bookish aesthetic she bullied him over once not long ago, and then it makes sense to her.

Once she isn’t able to find any clues as to what the team is working on, which is surely a successful attempt of a plot by the team, she goes back to her car and heads home. 

Usually heading home is the start to the end of her day, when she can wind down and relax, but she hasn't relaxed her shoulders since she left the supermarket nearly 4 hours ago. She couldn't get the event out of her head.

_ You’re really wet, all for me? _

She can’t remember him saying that. She remembers the rest, the  _ your body betrays you,  _ the  _ don't act like you hate it,  _ the  _ you take me so well-- _

_ He most certainly did  _ not  _ say that. He better not have. Because you don't say that when you're talking about your fingers, and _

Her head shuts off. 

She drives home in silence, haunted by the strange feeling of concern for something she can't place.

~

She walks about her apartment, filling the rest of the evening with the tasks she’s used to completing. Cleaning up whatever messes she left behind in the morning when she was a lesser-awoken being. Giving the creature her well-deserved play time and evening walk. Cooking a common supper for the two of them, while abandoning the foodstuffs she bought earlier for the purpose of trying something new.

She settles on her couch for the night, attempting to act as if nothing is wrong, but even she doesn’t buy it. She feels like she’s been playing house all this time, pretending to be a human, or like she’s being watched and needs to act normal in order to evade suspicion from her stalker.

She makes a frustrated show of standing up and pacing. She  _ needs _ to figure out what it was that concerned her on the way home today. 

**187**

**work**

**slide to answer**

“Hey!” She exclaims, grateful.  _ Perfect timing. _

“Well, hey.” He greets in return, sounding a little more excited than maybe he intended to. “What’s got you all cheery?”

“Um,”  _ you _ , “nothin’, just… happy, I guess!”

“Well, I won't question it.” She can hear the smile on his face, and desperately wants to know which of his smiles it is. “I, uh, wanted to check up on you. Make sure you’re still alright.” He says, a bit softer. The phone does him the favor of filtering his voice with a little extra grit to it.

“Yeah, I’m…”  _ No. Now’s the chance to figure out what’s wrong with you.  _ “You know what? I don't-- I don't feel okay. Well, I guess I feel  _ okay, _ but I don't feel… right.”

“Oh.” He says, his single syllable still sympathetic.

“Yeah. When I was driving home today, I  _ remembered _ something, or something  _ happened, _ and it was important. Something I think I needed to take care of. But I can't remember it, and it’s just driving me crazy.” She hears how crazy she sounds, and is insecure in knowing that Spencer is hearing the same thing on the other line.

“A-w-well. If you can't remember it, then… it probably wasn't too important in the first place, right?”

She accepts that idea very easily.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. Yeah.” She sighs. “Thank you.” She laughs a little bit at how  _ silly _ it all was, how juvenile. “You’re good at giving advice.”

She hears some shuffling in the background. Like maybe he’s leaning back in bed at whatever motel he’s staying at. “Well, you’re good at taking it.”

_ Oh, God. _

* * *

Oh, shit. Did I say something wrong?

“Oh, my God,” she wheezes.

“What? Y/N, what’s wrong?”

She doesn't respond. She continues her wheezing, forceful breaths that have robbed her of her words.

“Do I need to call 911?”

“ _ No!  _ No. I just-- Ican’t--”

Panic attack.

“Hey. Listen to me. Make sure you can hear me clearly, okay? Are you listening?” I pause, but know she can't respond, so I just hope. “Alright, we’re going to focus on something. We’re going to count backwards, okay? We’ll start at 100, and go back by seven. I’ll help you.”

She lets out a particularly loud sob that stabs at my chest.

“Y/N,  _ count for me,  _ okay?” I affirm, desperately recalling the strength I had when I helped her the last time she panicked.

“W-w-one hundred,”

“Good! Good! Okay, go back by seven.”

I coach her through, all the way back, until she gets to 2. She does the math wrong a few times, so I gently say, “Try again,” to encourage her to regain more control over herself. By the time she gets to 16, her breath is steady and her voice returns to her.

“I’m okay.” She assures herself.

“Yes, you are.” I echo. After some continued, steady breaths from her, I continue on. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“ _ Yes,  _ please.” She nearly laughs, but it’s a sad joke that only she’s allowed to laugh at.

“I’m here.” I wish I could be there with her right now. “Go at your own pace.”

“Today, I… I went grocery shopping, and I tried this fancy supermarket because this one article said that I should  _ treat myself _ if I’m feeling down,” which is totally not applicable to post-traumatic stress victims, as treating oneself usually means going out of a comfort zone in some manner, “so I did. And when I went to the deli counter… I saw him.” She draws a breath like it’s hard to. “I saw  _ him, _ Spence.”

I nearly tell her that Wright is less than 48 hours away from his execution, and that's impossible, but then I get what she means.

“He was… saying the things that he said to me... before, when we were-hh-- in his mom’s office, and then he had this, um, big butcher knife in his hand, and I couldn't stop him, and he cut her head off, and it was  _ my _ head.”

This is a highly complicated hallucination. She may need medication, or some real therapy. I can’t tell for sure without more observation. Strong flashbacks tend to happen soon after the event, and then fade.

“But then he said something that I  _ don’t  _ remember him saying at the office. And it’s  _ really bothering me, Spence.” _ She says, tearing up again.

“It’s okay--  _ hey _ , if you tell me what he said, I can tell you if it really happened. I saw the video, remember?” I start to negotiate quickly.

A  _ long _ moment passes. Long enough for me to question if I said something offensive. Then, in a voice I surely wouldn't be able to hear if it wasn't over the phone, she says,

“He said, ‘you take me so well.’

_ Jesus… _

“No.” I state. “No, he didn't say that. He didn't… he didn't  _ do _ that.”

* * *

“Oh, thank God.” She pants. Even with the good news, though, a sadness starts to fill her. How fucked up is it that she didn’t know for sure?

“Can you just… can you stay on the phone with me a little longer?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Thank you.” She sniffs, and starts to cozy herself on her couch. “Um…” she starts to think of something that’d be well distracting. “Tell me about the case?”

“ _ Y/N…” _

“Oh, my God, you of all people should know that offering my advice on a case isn't going to  _ harm me mentally.”  _ She fights back. “I just want something to focus on.”

“... fine. But only because we’ve already got a name on the unsub, and now we just have to track him down.” A pause. “And because you asked so nicely.”

If his goal was to make her smile, then he achieved it.

“His name’s Finn Morgan. He’s killing because he’s impotent.”

She waits for him to continue, but he doesn’t.

“That’s all you’re going to give me?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” she retorts, happy to start playing this game with him. “Then I have no advice.”

“I think we’ll manage.” She can hear the smirk on his lips.

“You know, this is a  _ real _ shitty way to be my shoulder to cry on.” She points out.

“See, I  _ didn’t _ agree to being your shoulder, but I  _ did _ agree to helping you feel better.” She hears him smiling again, and guesses it’s the third smile, where he tries to suppress it but instead ends up looking goofy. Or maybe she’s lucky, or he’s shameless and alone, and he’s got the second smile on. The  _ real _ smile.

“Well, you’re doing a shit job.” She lies.

That breaks him. He practically giggles, and it  _ kills _ her.

“Alright, I’m sorry.” He settles from his little fit. “What can I do to be better?”

“Just talk to me. About whatever you want.”

* * *

Ah, shit. I’m not good at these things.

“Uh…” I look around for something interesting to talk about, but God knows that I don’t know what other people find interesting, or even bearable. I settle on a stock painting hanging on the wall. It’s an abstract piece, which is my least favorite kind of painting because I  _ cannot _ understand them, even though I  _ know _ how abstract art works. The painting’s texture resembles leather before it’s been polished or dyed.

“Do you know how leather is made, Y/N?”

“Uh… kinda.” She responds. Her hesitancy wasn’t judgemental. She was actually trying to recall an answer to the question.  _ God, _ how refreshing.

“The process is called tanning. B-basically, what they do is first, they soak the leather to remove any of the curing salts, and--”

“Well, wait. You already said leather. How did it get to that point?” She says, engaged.

“Well, it’s more like a hide at that point. The fur and epidermis is still attached.”

“Oh, okay, gotcha.”

I blush. I can feel it spreading down to my chest. She  _ cares. _

“Y-y- _ yeah, _ um, so, they, soak it, and then it goes through something called  _ liming, _ which helps get rid of any of the natural greases, keratin, hair, soluble proteins, and then prepares what’s left over for the rest of the process.”

* * *

She can’t remember when her hand moved down to her abdomen, but it’s there, and now she’s watching her fingers play with the waistband of her sweatpants.

“A-after that, there’s unhairing, where they get rid of anything left over…”

She deserves this. She deserves to feel good, to feel  _ normal. _

“... and then the biological material that’s left over, which is the collagen, softens  _ because _ of the pH…”

Reid wouldn’t notice, would he? She would be surprised if he did. He’s not the type to pick up on anything sexual like that. She’s almost positive the poor guy is a virgin.

_ Fuck it. _

She pushes her hand under both of her waistbands, and wastes no time. She didn’t realize how  _ wet _ she was until she felt it, only that her heart was beating faster and that her breath was deeper than usual.

“... and chromium sulfate is the most commonly used agent to tan leather, because it’s the least toxic…”

She’s a little ashamed that listening to such a gross process being described to her turns her on  _ this _ much, makes her get  _ this _ close. She tells herself it’s about his voice, not the words. God, it’s  _ definitely about his voice. He’s so eager to talk, to educate… fuck… _

* * *

“... but they don’t like to use that dye method too often, it’ll affect the malleability and the  _ softness _ of the leather, so--”

“ _ Fuck, _ ”

I freeze.

That sounded like… like a  _ moan. _ She said it so breathlessly, so forced. She wasn’t expecting that to come out, either.

Was she trying to hide it?

_ Oh. _

* * *

_ Fuck, does he know? _

* * *

“... and… there’s another kind of tanning, that you can do with a chemical that’s… naturally occurring in the bark of some trees.” I speak a little slower, a little smoother.

Just for her.

* * *

_ I can’t tell if he knows or he’s weirded out, but it doesn’t matter, because good God, he sounds so fucking delicious right now. _

The adrenaline combined with her oncoming orgasm nearly steals her breath, and her fingers start slipping further and further down each time she flicks herself, until eventually, she’s stroking at her entrance.

* * *

This can’t be real. There’s no way this is really happening. What if she’s just crying again, and she isn’t telling me to stop because my voice is helping?

“There’s… also a method that results in an off-white color in the leather. You can use titanium, aluminum, zirconium, or a combination of them all to do it.”

I can find out what’s really happening with just a few words. I just have to say a few words that can be sexual, and I’ll know if she’s touching herself. And then maybe, we’ll  _ finally _ address this unspoken thing between us. Or, we’ll never address this again. Things will be different, because we’ll both know, or at least be  _ pretty sure about what happened that night on the phone _ , but we’ll never speak about it, and eventually, it’ll fade away. Or, this is all in my head, because I’m a 38-year-old virgin, and I’ll just make a fool of myself.

I’ll take that risk.

* * *

“That process is called  _ wet leather. _ ”

The fingers inside of her curl up, and she suddenly sees white as the strong warmth of her orgasm grips her thighs tightly. She gasps loud enough for the phone’s microphone to pick up, but she doesn’t hear herself-- she’s too busy trying to vibrate her hand to make this hot, relieving feeling last as long as possible. Orgasms are always good, but they’re even better when you use one to reclaim your own body after a trauma. She isn’t consciously aware that healing from her body being stolen from her is half of the reason this orgasm feels so good, so  _ special _ .

She is aware, though, of the other half that explains why this feels so right.

* * *

I just had phone sex with my coworker.

I mean, right? That  _ had _ to be her finishing. I have to say something. I can’t be direct and just  _ tell _ her I know that she was touching herself, because she’s still coming down from… from her orgasm. The orgasm  _ I _ helped with. Or maybe I should just pretend I didn’t notice. She’d believe it, she can tell how inexperienced I am with all of this, just like the rest of the team. 

No, she’ll know. She’s on the same page as me-- now, and all the days before.

I can _hear_ sighing, heavy breaths on the other line. God, I want to know what she looks like right now. Is she clutching the phone to her chest, her arm hanging off the side of her bed, totally blissed out? Is she frozen in place, her hand still against her sex and her phone against her ear, laying down on her couch? How did she touch herself? What does she _like?_

I have to say something.

What would Morgan do?

_ Go with your gut, kid. _

* * *

She thought her orgasm was the most heart-stopping event she’d experience tonight. But, in a voice that was  _ dripping _ with dangerous confidence, with  _ ‘I know your secret,’ _ Spencer asks, 

_ “Do you feel better now?” _

Yeah,  _ that _ was the sexiest thing she’s ever heard. 

_ Does he know, and he’s just being sly about it, making fun of me a little bit? Or is this all just in my head and I just need to get therapy and get laid? _

“Yes. Thank you, Spencer. Nothing like a… a little  _ lesson  _ to put me to sleep.” She plays along with the idea that they both  _ don’t _ know what just happened. Because she sure as hell doesn’t know.

She thinks she hears a chuckle on the other line.

“Good night, Y/N.”

“Good night, Spencer.”

She hangs up.

* * *

“ _ Fuck. _ ”

What am I supposed to do now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i believe that this is what the professors call a 'plot turn'


	13. Cotton Blend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary  
> Spencer gets some advice, and Y/N tries to break back into the FBI on her LOA.  
> \--  
> x

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> she’s alive!!!!!  
> i hate this chapter tho this was a low-effort chapter just to get me back into writing this shit again

“Doctor Reid!” The receptionist greets me as I push through the nursing home’s foyer.

“Hello, Mrs. Mason!” I chime in return.

“It’s always a good day when you’re here.” Her aged voice tremors. “Your mother is in a good mind today!”

_ Yeah, I hope so... _

“Oh, wonderful!” I respond. 

I sign in, and look over the signatures above mine on the paper. They all have the same consistent line quality, no pen lifts, and are all unembellished. These signatures belonged to people who were rushing. My signature, though, has awful line quality, and the baseline changes with each letter. It’s nearly print, not script. People tell me that my handwriting looks like a child’s, and I couldn’t learn cursive as a kid, so I just stuck with the chicken scratch.

Once I'm signed in, and once the nurse glances at my badge--  _ purely out of obligation _ , she reminds me-- I’m led through the single corridor to the day room, where my mother is sitting at the window.

“Spencer,” she cooes, her tone as welcoming as ever as she rises.

“Hi, mom.” I murmur. She appears healthy and awake so far.

“You never see me on Tuesdays.” She stands to take me into a hug.

“I didn’t have any cases,” I talk into her shoulder. She smells nice. “And I missed you.”

“Oh,” she says, bashfully. We both sit, and she leans in, resting her chin on her hands. “Such a nice boy.”

“Mom, I’m 38.” I hear a little chuckle in my voice.

“Oh, you’re still my sweet boy.” She corrects me, waving her hand briefly before returning it to its position.  _ My sweet boy. _

Her demeanor is promising today. She appears hygienic and present.

“When was the last time I visited?” I ask, starting my set of diagnostic questions. The nurse said that she was doing well, and Mom looks like it, too, but I need to double-check.

“I believe it was… Sunday.” She thinks aloud.

“Right, right.” I act as if I’m recalling. “What’d we talk about?”

“That was the day we talked about  _ Of Mice and Men.” _

Okay. She’s all-there.

“Right, right.” I say, with dismissive finality. 

Her short-term memory is intact-- at least for now, for today. Her long-term memory isn't affected by her illness just yet, which is a miracle when you compare her case to other patients that fit in the same demographics. She should have been facing much more serious declines in health about two weeks ago. So, I can't help but worry as she sits in front of me now. I’ve been so scared, all this time, to witness the worst thing that can happen to a secondhand Alzheimer’s victim: the switch happening right in front of you. The switch from one reality to another, where one moment they’re grateful for the sudden granted intellectual capability, and the next, they're… lost. 

I don’t want her to know why I ask those questions every time I visit. It’d hurt her spirit, knowing that I’ve tricked her into taking these little tests. I’m sure she already knows, though. She always does.

“Spencer, you came here to talk about something.” She calls me out.

“Why do you say that?” I feel my head rear back.

“Because it’s Tuesday.” She shrugs. I start to fear that she is actually feeling sicker today, and she just happened to guess correctly on why I was here.

“What, I can’t come see my mother if I miss her?” I ask.

“Not with  _ your  _ job, no.” She shoots back.

I chew my cheek. Although it can be embarrassing to be read so easily, I don't mind it. Not when it comes from her. It reminds me that she’ll never change, even with the illness. The forgetful, sick days just aren’t her.

“You know me well.” I mutter. “Mom, I, um-- I need some advice.”

“Okay.” She has empathetic body language, and is attentive. That’s the therapist in her.

“I…” I know I came here to talk about Y/N, but suddenly it’s hard to remember what I had planned to say. I think I’m just relieved to see that Mom’s okay. “Well, uh, there’s a… woman. That I… like. But that I shouldn’t pursue.”

“Spencer, I told you to move on.” She starts to warn me.

“I-I  _ did _ ! I  _ did _ . The  _ moment  _ you told me to move on from J.J., I did.” I explain. She looks disbelieving, and I sigh, trying to convince her further. “I took your advice right away.”

“Okay, then which co-worker is it?” She reasons.

“Why do you assume it’s a coworker?” I squeak.

“Because you only like people who are as smart as you.” _Oh, come on._ “So, she’s either a coworker, or a criminal, and you’d never let yourself fall for a criminal.” Appalled at this, I open my mouth to comment, but she continues on. “ _So,_ if you feel strongly about this coworker of yours, _and_ if your team is as trusting and understanding as you say they are, then they should trust and understand your decision to _pursue_ _her_.” She emphasizes her last words to sound like an order or an encouragement.

 _Pursue her._ _Trusting, understanding._

It makes sense.

Always. She _always_ knows _exactly_ what to say. And she knows when to say it, and how.  
“Thank you, mom.”

“Of course, honey. Now, let’s talk about this new book, because  _ I’m _ starting to think that the narrator isn’t reliable…”

* * *

“You little  _ creature. _ ”

Maggot was looking at Y/N funny while she was watching TV. Her eyes were usually big, black, and unwavering in their eye contact, but right now, Maggot was doing a sort of smize at Y/N. Her hairless eyelids were heavy and she was smiling and panting.

“You are a  _ nasty _ lady.” She hisses.

Maggot looks off towards the TV, continuing on in whatever pleasurable thought that engaged her at that moment, without her roommate’s sudden disparaging bothering her.

Three sudden knocks at the door cause the tiny beast to hop to her feet, ‘howling’ away as she scampers to the front of the apartment.

“Coming!” Y/N yells as she sets her drink down on the table and follows after her dog. “ _ You’re really lettin’ ‘em have it, Mag.” _ She mutters to the little dog which wags its tail at the door now.

Without sliding the chain, she opens the door.

“Emily?” She smiles, identifying her coworker through the gap.

“Hey, you!” She calls out, her voice as clear and commanding as usual. She looks beautiful, too, with a wide neckline that shows her strong, but lean shoulders.

“One sec,” Y/N says, before shutting and then opening the door all the way.

“Wanted to check up on you,” Emily says, her voice still filled with  _ hey, girl! _ energy as Maggot sniffs away at her shoes. “Who is  _ this?” _ She says with only a tiny hint of disgust as she looks down at the guard dog.

“That would be little Maggot.” She introduces.

“M _ aggot, _ ” She laughs her name out, as she squats down to offer a hand to the pup, who makes a show of inching forward in a distrusting manner before sniffing at her. “Is that even a dog?” She insults affectionately.

“It’s Maggot. That’s all I know for sure.”

She stands up, laughing. It wasn’t until just now that Y/N sees the little tupperware that Emily had with her. There are brownies inside.

“Oh,  _ lucky me,” _ She makes eye contact with the presumed present.

“Yeah! When I was recovering from an on-the-job injury, Garcia brought me brownies, and I remembered how  _ perfect _ they were. It was like, exactly what I needed.” She hands over the container. “I wasn’t sure if you were allergic to anything, so they’re just plain chocolate.”

“‘Plain’ and ‘chocolate’ do not go in the same sentence.” Y/N takes the container and busts it open. She leads Emily over to her kitchen while taking a bite of one of the squares.

“Mmm- _ mygod.” _ She mumbles, her mouth full. The brownies are  _ extremely _ rich, but they aren't super sweet like most rich brownies are. “Did you make these?” She asks as if she wouldn’t believe a positive answer.

“Wow! You don’t believe I have the skill?” Emily asks, faking offense, as she walks up to the island counter.

“No! It’s not  _ you, _ it’s-- I just don’t think  _ anyone _ could be this talented!”

Emily makes an impressed face at the implication, and then leans forward to take a brownie from the container. She tries a bite of her own work, and has a similar response to Y/N’s.

“Okay, totally. I  _ couldn’t _ have made these.” She wipes her thumb over her lip as she chews.

“ _ Very  _ good,” she repeats, covering her mouth as she chews. 

“So,” she swallows, “I wanted to come to check up on you.” Her voice is a little more sympathetic in tone now. “How are you feeling?” She asks, furrowing her brow a bit.

“You know, I…” Y/N starts, stretching her lungs with a good sigh. She hadn’t really checked in with herself the past few days. She was advised by multiple people to keep occupied with as many pleasurable things as possible, and she did. She drove around daily with the intention of visiting as many places as she could, do as many things as she could. She ate out for each meal, she visited the shopping mall nearby, she took Maggot to a dog park for the first time ( _ terrible _ idea). She even scoped out a new bar. That little trip didn’t go too well, though. Although it engaged her physically to be around others in a setting like that, she was mentally somewhere else. Ever since it happened, her head stayed on that night on the phone with Spencer.

“I think I’m alright.” She says, starting over. “I’ve found some new stuff to… keep me grounded.”  _ More like keep me daydreaming. _

“Well, good!” Emily exclaims. “That’s what helped me, too, when I got hurt.” She recalls. “It wasn’t about… processing what happened and healing from it. It was more about just… just feeling  _ normal _ again, you know?”

“Exactly.” Y/N nods. That’s  _ exactly _ what it’s like.

“Well, if any of the new hobbies stop working out for you, let me know. I’ve got some classes and some things I like to do that I’m sick of doing alone.”

“Why don’t you bring your man with you?” She closes up the brownie container and sticks it in the fridge.

“Ah,” she makes some sort of face, but it’s not a sad one. “Well, we broke up a little while ago.” She informs her casually.

“Oh.” She sounds. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Good.” She says with relief. “I just… things were distant with him, you know? Physically and… everything else.”

“I get you.” She sympathizes. Emily was in a long distance relationship for awhile with someone that worked in the same field as her. Whenever she brought him up, she seemed more like she dreaded the conversation than anything else. Y/N could relate. Her relationship with Frankie from her old unit was similar. They worked so closely, but that was precisely the thing that pushed them away from each other, that made them never really talk about how they felt. “No point in carrying around dead weight if it doesn’t make you happy, you know?” She says, a little sadder than she intends.

“Ex _ act _ ly.” She nods.

“Hey, um…”

Emily looks up from her brownie as Y/N’s tone changes.

“Has there ever been a relationship within the BAU?” She asks gingerly.

Emily stills, processing the question, before standing up straight. She was engaged.

“No, why do you ask?” Her voice was more work-like than friendly.

_Fuck,_ _she knows. She knows why I’m asking._

“Well, it just seems like some of the team members are close to each other.” She recovers.

Emily opens her mouth, and then stops, melting at the shoulders a bit.

“Derek and Penelope are just… really close friends.” She sighs. “They both have that flirty sense of humor. Actually, Derek had another agent he was like that with, I heard. Her name was Elle.”

Y/N feels a weight lift from her shoulders, but she makes sure not to show it in front of the profiler across from her. Instead, Y/N nods, appearing to listen with intent as Emily assumes what it was that made Y/N ask her question.

“Ah. Well, I wasn’t bothered by them or anything, I was just curious. They seem like a real good match.” She saves.

Emily makes an agreeing face as she chews.

“What would happen if they  _ did _ start dating?” Y/N adds on carefully.

Emily stares off, thinking about her response as she swallows.

“Well,” she starts, “Hotch’d probably have a talk with them. Make them promise it won’t affect anything in the field. Might even be something to sign.”

“So they wouldn’t get fired.” Y/N clarifies.

Emily looks at her in silence for a moment longer than Y/N expects.

“No, I don’t think so.” She says, her voice soft and…  _ understanding. _ “I feel like Hotch trusts everyone on the team to make the right decisions.”

_ The right decisions. _

* * *

~

“Hey Reid, lemme talk to you.”  
  
Morgan’s voice pierces a hole in my focus, distracting me from the paperwork in front of me. Regardless of how smooth his voice is, it still makes me jump a little in my seat.

“Uh, yeah,” I set my pencil down, shifting my focus to him, but he doesn’t come closer to my desk. Instead, he nods his head towards his old office. “Oh. Okay.”

He leads me hyper-casually into the storage room and makes a show of closing the door behind us. If I didn’t know better, I’d think to start taking my tie off.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“I was about to ask you the same thing.” He plants his hands on his hips.

“What do you mean? I was just sitting there, working.” He’s completely lost me.

He stares at me.

“Oh,  _ what?” _ I ask, fiercely. I’m so sick of this. He’s making one of those faces that I don’t understand.

“You wanna know how I  _ know _ something’s up? Because you went to see your mom outside of your usual visitation schedule.” He shifts his position, now crossing his arms across his wide chest with obnoxious authority. “And when something’s up with you, you get distracted.  _ Especially  _ on the field.”

“Okay, well, if you brought me in here just to  _ penalize  _ me, then--”

“No.” He points a finger, cutting me off. “If I  _ wanted _ to penalize you, I would’ve done that already, and you know it.” He holds his pose for effect before relaxing. “I brought you in here because I’m  _ worried _ about you, Reid. I don’t want you to get hurt on the field. If  _ you  _ were the first person to breach with Wright instead of me--”

“Why do you always feel the need to say that?” I start talking before I can think. “Why do you  _ always _ need to say that-that I’m  _ weaker _ than you? Huh? How do you think that makes me feel? Do you think it--”

“Reid--”

“ _ No-- _ do you think it makes me feel  _ good?  _ It doesn’t, Morgan! It makes me feel like a  _ baby! _ You don’t need to protect me any more than you need to protect the  _ rest  _ of the unit!”

The silence in the room leads me to realize that I’ve been yelling much louder than I intended.

“Spencer…” He says, a little shocked.

He  _ never _ says my first name. I don’t like the way it sounds in his voice.

“Just… I’m  _ worried _ about you, little brother.” He continues, and crosses the distance between us. “Do you know what I’d do… if you got  _ hurt _ and there was something I could’ve done about it?”

“Yeah, you’ve told me before…” I say, not bothering to recall the words he’d used to describe it. “It doesn’t change that you’re implying I need more protection than the rest of the unit.”

“Would you just let me  _ finish?” _ He nearly spits.

“Would you just  _ listen  _ to me?!” I finally meet his eyes, spitting right back at him. “ _ For once?” _ My voice cracks.

He looks… smug, almost. He steps back, gesturing towards me. “Go ahead, kid.” He says, like he knows something I don’t.

“Don’t call me that right now,” I whisper. He makes some other gesture but I don’t bother to look up at him.

I can’t think of anything left to say. I’ve already said it to him, hundreds of times. And yet, every single time, he had his reasons not to listen.

“Now, will you let me try to help you?” Derek asks. I don’t respond. “Just tell me what’s going on.  _ Please. _ ”

He’s not going to quit. I have to actually tell him what’s going on. And I really,  _ really _ do not want his input on this particular subject.

“I met someone.”

His stupid, thick, dark eyebrows raise, and he rapidly blinks. “Reid, I--” He says on a smile.

“Oh, for--”

“Okay, okay! I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just… I wasn’t expecting  _ that.” _

I ignore the second backhanded compliment.

“I’m not supposed to pursue her. There’s… restrictions.”

I can  _ see _ him thinking. It’s cute, how he’s so easily readable.  _ Annoyingly cute, of course. _

“Reid… I… “ He sighs. “You know, we tell you all the time to care less about work and more about your personal life, but… that doesn’t mean that you can break  _ laws _ , you know?” He pauses. I’m not sure where he’s going. Why is he immediately assuming I’ve broken laws? What does that say about me? “Alright… how old is she?”

“Okay, we’re done.” I spit, turning out of the room.

“Wait, wait!  _ Kid!” _ He grabs my arm. I hurt myself pulling it free, but I grant him the gift of stopping in my path and letting him speak one more time.

“Well, if it’s not age, then what is it?”

“I shouldn’t have talked to you about this. You shouldn’t have asked.”

“Is it an unsub again?”

“I’m--” I breathe out to calm some anger. I’d never hurt him, but I still need to redirect this frustration he’s causing me. “I  _ did not like Catherine Adams. _ ”

“Will you just  _ talk to me,  _ then?”

He’s right. I can’t be so mad at him if I’m not going to help him. He can’t help not knowing anything about this part of my life. I barely do.

“Fine, you don’t have to say anything, Reid.” He says, with a surprising amount of truth in his tone. “Just… listen to this, okay?” He pulls my arm again, more gently, to make me face him again. “If it’s not supposed to happen…  _ it just won’t. _ ”

Faith. That’s what he’s pitching me. Faith in whatever controls relationships.

“Someone will just… stop it from happening.” He continues.

No, not faith…  _ his protection. _

Again, and again, always-- his protection over me.

Regretfully, I pull him into a hug.

* * *

~

  
  


“Miss, I’m sorry, but I really don’t think it’s going to go through.”

The receptionist politely begs Y/N to give up and go home after attempt number three at trying to get back into work, but she doesn’t give up.  
“They didn’t _fire_ me, it’s a medical break. It shouldn’t be not letting me in.”

“Actually,”

Her heart stops, just for a second. She hasn’t heard that voice in a few days now. And the last time she heard it… 

“No matter what the reasoning is, the system is updated instantaneously, so if it’s a medical leave, maternity leave, or disciplinary leave, it all gets treated the same.” He stops when he reaches the desk, his hands in his pockets. She notices the dark square figure of Hotch approaching behind him. “Which is, no entry until date listed.”

“Thank Garcia for the system upgrade.” Hotch says, still engrossed in whatever’s on his phone screen. He puts it away and looks to Y/N. “She also set up a direct alert to my line if you tried to come back early.”

“Why do I feel like the lock has been changed on me?”

“Technically, it has. The entire security system works in a really interesting way,” he raises his hands as he talks, gesturing slightly, “where every line of code that accepts each ID barcode isn’t changed except for the condemned user’s--”

“Christ--  _ condemned?” _ She cuts him off.

“That’s… the word that Garcia’s program… uh, uses…” He trails off, looking towards the floor. His hands stuff back into his pockets.

“What do you need?” Hotch takes over.

“I just wanted to see what you guys were up to. I wasn’t coming in to do any work, just-- just to talk.” She nearly whines at the end. No matter how many things she preoccupied her break with, she couldn’t keep her mind off of her new closest friends, and it was starting to really bother her. Before she realized her destination, she hopped in her car and started driving, and this is where she’d ended up.  
Some sort of pain flashes on Hotch’s face. _Guilt._

“If you can… if you can get a note from a psych rep from  _ our _ team, then…”

“Yes! Thank you!”

“Then you can come back.” He finishes as she takes him into a hug that would appear unwelcome from an onlooker, but to Y/N, she knows it’s more than so when she hears a tiny sigh from him as he returns the hug.

* * *

Never seen Hotch hug someone that soon after meeting them before.

I clear my throat.

* * *

The audio cue makes her step back and laugh a little.

“Thank you. Seriously. I’ll, I’ll set up an appointment soon.”

“I’m sure you will.”

She gives a hopeful little nod to Hotch, and then looks over to Spencer.

Everything inside of her speeds up. Her heart, her blood. Her being. She suppresses it, and in a weird display of how she doesn’t know what to do with her hands, she places them on her hips, mutters “Okay,” and then walks off, unsure and overwhelmed.

* * *

She pushes back her cardigan when she puts her hands on her hips, and I can’t help it. Hotch is standing in front of me, and the receptionist’s walked off, so I look.

She’s wearing those pants again.

She turns and walks off.

_ “Reid.” _

Hotch’s voice shocks me out of my stare, and I look back at him. He shakes his head, nearly rolling his eyes.

“It’s-- it’s basically 6, just--” He checks his watch, and then turns to look at Y/N who’s out in the parking lot now. He turns back to Spencer. “Just go.” He gestures towards her.

I take off towards the doors.

“Not to  _ her.” _ Hotch calls after me. I shamefully turn around.

He actually has a smile on his face.

“I  _ meant _ go  _ home. _ ”

“Don’t-- don’t say anything.” I stutter. He shakes his head and turns back towards where we came from, and I take off again.

~

Once the door is locked behind me, I dart straight to my bedroom, straight under my pillow, straight for the stashed scarf that has nearly lost its scent now. Each night, I’ve been laying awake, knowing that it’s underneath the pillow, just behind my head, and I can  _ feel _ the skin back there crawling with heat, but I felt too much shame to actually sit up and reach behind the pillow. Too much shame, because I know what I’d do next.

Tonight is different.

There is no shame. I’ve thought over this situation so many times, this situation I have with her now, now that we’re assuredly both spending all of our time thinking of each other, thinking if we both  _ know _ what  _ really _ happened on the phone, thinking about each other walking through that door  _ right now. _ There is no shame.

Only need.

It’s so soft. 100% cotton blend, I’m sure. Pretty color. Navy blue. Says a lot about her, really, this color choice.

I lean back, ignoring the sudden clinging of my belt coming undone. Forget the set-up.

I stare at it in my hand as long as I can, but that length isn’t very long at all. I shut my eyes and inhale, and there it is. There’s that fucking perfect scent. That perfect scent of her.

My other hand starts moving, and good God, I’m already so close.

I  _ need _ to know how she touched herself that night. I  _ need _ to know what she looked like.

_ “Fuck,” _

Did she whisper that because she pushed her fingers into herself, hilting her knuckles against her? Or, did she say that because she finally let herself rub her clitoris, after ignoring it for so long, knowing how sweet it’d feel to wait just a _little_ longer? Does she _know_ that waiting a little bit makes it feel better?

“I’d teach you,”

I can feel my own fingers tighten against each other between the fabric of her scarf as my whole body clenches up, and I tremble through my orgasm, holding my breath until I can’t anymore, until this fucking incredible release finally stops releasing.

My exhausted arms splay out to the sides of me, and I can see again, now that the scarf isn’t on my face anymore. I look down at myself, looking at the evidence of this shameful sin, and sit up before my body wants me to. I start to turn towards my nightstand, reaching for the drawer to clean up, but something catches my eye.

On that soft, sweet, fabric that had, over these past few days, become religious to me in a way, was a long, painted, white streak.

“Fuck!”


End file.
